Threads
by ThePumpkinNinja
Summary: Spanning more than thirty years, this story begins at the turning of the Age. A young Magister learns of a mysterious weapon, a slave escapes her master with her new born baby and four spirits of Justice, Desire, Faith and Hope begin a plan to change the world. What follows is a story of betrayal, love, desire and obsession that takes the reader from Tevinter to Kirkwall.
1. Chapter 1

**9.22 Dragon**

**The Coliseum, Minrathous**

The blow hit him in the centre of his ribcage and Leto staggered backwards, landing heavily in the dirty sand. Pain swelled in his chest as the air was pushed from his lungs, but he didn't have time to feel it, rolling quickly away as a shard of ice impaled the ground he had occupied moments before.

In one agonising movement he brought himself snarling to his feet and hefted his sword high above his head. He could almost feel the screams of the crowds, a deep thunderous noise that slammed into him, suffocating him and drowning out the _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart beating hard in his chest.

He pushed against the ground, charging at the mage opposite him. Leto knew he had seconds at best to reach his target before he would be revived enough to launch another attack, an attack the warrior could ill afford to receive. The only chance he had was to keep the mage defending himself, make him use up his energy until he had no power left to protect himself, until he was weak and afraid. _Like my family must have been._And so he rose again to the attack, every muscle in his body propelling him toward his vengeance. He was running now, hurtling across the short distance between them with all his strength, the muscles in his arms screaming against the bone crushing weight of the great-sword. Sweat stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but he could see enough to know that the mage was moving his hands in faster and faster patterns in front of him, casting the next assault.

_Running out of time. One, maybe two seconds to reach him. Another to kill._

The noise was disorientating. It surrounded him like a solid wall, and Leto dimly sensed the finality of his life; how small he was, how insignificant in comparison to the screaming, blood thirsty humans that circled him on all sides. Tier upon tier they rose above him, angry, distorted faces barking and baying for blood, most of them wishing to see it be his. And yet still the elf hurtled forward, all conscious thought shattered, running on anger and hatred and the euphoric thrill of the hunt.

_One second gone, but not close enough yet, not close enough to kill._

Everything Leto had made himself into propelled him forward, his screams and nightmares whipping at his heels, pushing him to find the grit, the endurance he needed. The desire within him for blood and revenge overwhelmed any pain or exhaustion. The hatred that was coiled tight in his soul wished only to be released and then, finally, to acquit him of his own pain and suffering. Leto was a killer, a weapon. He knew that now, he understood at last what he had always been destined to be; all he had to do was to feel that fucker's blood on his hands, and Leto would be sated and ready to accept his own inevitable fate. All his instincts, training and strength focused him, driving him forward on borrowed stamina, on borrowed time. The sea of sound no longer threatened to drown him, he ceased to be aware of the insistent agony of his muscles or the burning pain in his torso. The sand shifted under his feet as he pounded forward, the air around him changing as the mage drew the Fade towards him, pulling in the unholy energies he would need to launch another series of attacks.

_Two seconds left_, but now the elf was within striking distance.

Tensing, Leto brought the sword down heavily, using its impossible weight to increase the power of the swing, aiming at the neck and shoulders of his enemy, hoping that his strength coupled with the height of the swing would cleave the man asunder in one movement. If he had to lift the sword again... Leto prayed he wouldn't have to.

The blade swung true.

Callum felt the world slow as the snarling animal that had once been his friend leaped towards him. His eyes focused on the edge of the blade as it swung at him, while his mind reached deep inside himself, scrabbling through the Fade, searching for any strength that he had left. He was drained and exhausted, and the whistle of the sword as it cut through the air kept pulling his attention from his task, a stupid and above all deadly mistake. He had to concentrate, had to visualise the tendrils of power he needed entering his body, settling in his core, ready for him to manipulate into something, anything, that would save him from being split in two. He could feel the air tighten, and the tangy taste of tin on his tongue.

The sharp edge of the blade caught the sun, throwing a stabbing ray of light into his vision, blinding him.

Callum flung his hand out towards the elf and, using every ounce of energy he had, focused all his being and _pushed_. The weapon rebounded hard against the invisible barrier before being flung backwards with Leto still gripping it, their combined momentum working against them.

Breathing heavily, Callum knew he had to regroup or he would die. He could try to repair his most serious wounds or he could attempt another attack; but not both. The relentless assault from the elf had left his reserves drained, resulting in a giddy, unsettled feeling that made it impossible to concentrate. Every part of his body and mind demanded rest. His thoughts fell away from him in a thousand tiny shards. He felt at every moment he might vomit.

He was desperately unsure his mind would survive yet another venture into the Fade without a moment to centre himself; it had taken every ounce of his willpower to draw forth the energy need to manifest the barrier. If he tried to heal himself, to stem the flow of blood and provide his body with deeper reserves, he might be able to draw more power again. But Callum was not adept at such a detailed and painstaking craft and he could just as easily rip his wounds open further, especially in his current state of anxiety. He also had no idea if he had time to even attempt to thread the skin and muscle back together before that bastard elf recovered. So that left offense.

_Could I get close enough for a short range attack? Would I be able to avoid his blade, or that damned armour?_

The armour. The Maker alone knew how much coin had been sunk into training and preparing the elf for this moment, but surely the majority could be accounted for in the reinforced coverings his one-time friend now wore.

That evil old bastard had clearly reached deep into his famously long pockets.

Staring at the warrior across the ring, Callum dreamily accepted that Leto looked magnificent, that the protection he wore was horrifyingly and extraordinarily beautiful. Jet black and feather light, it covered him from neck to heel. Every angle of his lean, powerful body seemed to have been gracefully and exquisitely extended out into sharp, malicious spikes. His dark hair was long now, and seemed to melt into the blackness of his livery.

Callum dimly recalled the stories Varania had taught him of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, the betrayer, and felt keenly how deceived he had been by the elves. .._Why does he hate me so.?_. S_hould I have taken him with Varania.?. How beautiful they both are.. One gives me life.. The other... If my friends could see me now.._

The apprentice Magister had already caught a glancing blow from Leto's gauntleted fist, and his stomach was bleeding steadily as a result, thick and sticky strands of blood dripped down towards the arena sand, measuring out what time Callum had left to decide his fate. He managed to pull himself into the present. The wound on his leg was less bloodied despite also being deep, but he tested his weight on it anyway, seeing if he would be able to get to the elf before he recovered from the throw. The anguished howl that escaped him as he attempted to walk was echoed back a thousand times in the gleeful roar of the crowd.

Callum looked round desperately at his fellow citizens, and knew there was no understanding, no sympathy to be had there. The coliseum didn't know or care why he, a mage and apprentice Magister, was locked into this brutal, barbaric match with a slave. He was nothing more than a rare and indulgent entertainment to them. He wondered if Varania was out there somewhere. Was she crying out for him, her high angry voice whipped and spun away by the crowds? Could her brother hear her? Whose name caught in her throat as these two men, lover and brother, fought to the death for her?

Leto staggered to his feet, screaming curses in the language of his patron. The irony of the magic that had just been used to fell him was not lost. He felt sick and dizzy, his sharp senses overwhelming him. He shook his head, as if he could in some way shake the effects of being hurled five meters through the air. His vision cleared, but the high, screeching wail that had accompanied the woozy sickness suddenly fell to silence and he realised he had lost his hearing in his left ear. He reached his hand up to that side of his face and bit back a yowl at the pain that formed when he touched his fingertips to his cheek. He felt bone amid the pulp that had once been his face. _The eye still works at least._

Leto had no idea what damage had been done to him beneath his armour. He didn't care. He had been hit with ice, fire and electricity and though the strange, unnatural skin he now wore took a lot of the damage, Leto could feel his body seizing up, his muscles slowing and stiffening as the effects of the magic took hold.

Worse affected was the skin on the underside of his forearms. Exposed by the armour to allow better freedom of movement, it was burnt and blistered. The sword was heavy, and every time he lifted it he could feel his charred skin crack. It didn't matter, it was annoying simply because it was distracting. A weapon doesn't notice the notches and scratches it acquires, and whatever shape his body was in by the end of the 'match' wasn't his problem anyway. Like any tool, he had a master to make use of him, so why care what he allowed to happen to him? All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was to free his family - and to finally be released from the guilt and nightmares that haunted him.

A cool wind blew through the amphitheatre. Small eddies of sand swirled around the feet of the two exhausted men as they watched each other, waiting for their opponent to make a mistake, to reveal what their next move would be.

Leto held the grip of the sword in his hands, testing its weight and found he had strength enough to lift it, but it was difficult, more difficult than it should have been.

"Is this city all you hoped it would be, Mage?" Leto hollered across the empty space between them, his voice cracking against the dry heat and dust, "Are you _powerful_ now?"

Callum stood as best he could, leaning heavily on his stave for support. "Powerful enough, my friend, powerful enough. Your master has trained you well – do you bark for him, and do tricks? Do you lick his face like the bitch you are?"

Both men took deep, gulping breaths of gritty air into their lungs while the crowd stomped and called out in rage and indignation at this momentary ceasefire.

"Bah." The elf spat out a tooth, but continued, "If I am a dog I have been trained well. You have no idea the tricks I have learnt."

And then Callum smiled, his open, friendly face lightened by a wide grin and for one moment he was fifteen again, playing at magic in the woods; his future, bright and full of adventure and purpose, lain out before him. He placed his palm above the gash in his stomach, and began to move it in slow, multifaceted movements. The blood from the wound began to mist and take shape around his hand. The air in the arena tightened, the Veil between the worlds pulled taught by the magic Callum was weaving. The young man looked his erstwhile friend in the eye as his own blood began to swirl around him with ever-increasing speed.

"Nor have you, friend."

And a thousand Tevinter voices roared in approval.

**9.02 Dragon**

**Denarius' Townhouse, Minrathous**

The house had been full but silent on the morning of her escape. The Master had been entertaining, bidding for supporters in His never-ending quest for power. He was trying to locate some kind of weapon which would help Him gain power. It was something her Master had been trying to acquire for many years now as it held power and influence beyond which His title, money and magic currently provided. Aryion didn't know the details, nor did she need to. He was the universe, and to deny Him His due was unthinkable.

There was an atmosphere of decadence within the townhouse walls. Although the party itself had ended, soft noises filtered through the heavy doors of occupied rooms. Blinking at the memory of what might be happening in each room, Aryion had slid past the thick wooden doors, praying they would stay closed. Half way down the corridor she heard a door open behind her, and knew, _knew_, that this was the end. She realised her stupidity, her recklessness. Cold, clear understanding filtered through her mind... She would never see her child grow up, she would never even see him again.

She waited for the air to thin and tighten, for the blood-like taste of tin that would mean the Magister she knew was behind her had connected to the Fade. She tried to settle her mind before death. She heard footsteps behind her moving closer and wondered, horrifically, how the Magister planned to end her life. A cold hand was placed on her shoulder and she jumped.

"Shhh, Aryion, it's only me."

A swell of relief and nervous anger rose up in her, and she spun on her heel, ready to slap the face of Elwyni, the elf who had come up behind her, for frightening her so. Of course, she did no such thing. She didn't have the strength in her mind, let alone her thin arms. Pregnancy and birth had taken what reserves she had, and Aryion was almost skeletal now. Elwyni though had seen the look pass over her features as she turned.

"Do you need direction, Aryion?" She asked, her tone friendly but the question not.

Panicking, Aryion had cast around for a reason to be above stairs in the early hours of the morning, in the middle of a political party, and could think of nothing. The knot rose again; the knot with which she was becoming so accustomed. The ever sickening feeling in her stomach had been with her daily, ever since she had given birth and the baby had been taken and she had, for the first time, wanted to rebel.

She had never before felt anger towards her Master and towards her situation, but she had screamed and screamed and the little baby, covered in her blood, had screamed with her. She had seen his hand, small and fragile as the bone china she washed every night, wave out to her as they had carried him from the room where she lay helpless, exhausted and bleeding.

Later, as she had lain alone in the dark, she had remembered the other elves. The free elves. _The Dalish elves. _And she had decided there and then to free her child and herself, and to find these Dalish.

An idea, a brilliant idea, occurred to Aryion, a flash of guile from the Maker himself, and she felt the knot lessen.

"What are you doing here Elwyni?" Aryion asked, pleased with herself for her quick wits.

Elwyni seemed surprised by the question, as Aryion was quiet and usually spoke as little as possible. For Aryion to ask a question, to make a comment that would require further conversation was rare at the best of times, and since the birth of the child almost unknown. Elwyni softened.

"I am helping the Master's guests to enjoy their time here. I was asked especially to pay attention to the visiting Lord Howe," she added, a tone in her voice Aryion couldn't recognise. "It is his room I am leaving, in fact. He wishes now for wine and someone younger than myself. I am going to collect both. Then I will attend to another."

"I am doing the same... I mean, I am collecting a younger elf for one of the guests. I am headed for the sales quarter; there is a pretty girl just of age I remember. I could, perhaps, help you by bringing back two? Then you would be free to fulfil the Master's wishes by entertaining another guest?"

Her voice had sped up desperately towards the end of her long speech, and Aryion held her breath. She wasn't sure which was more implausible – her lie, or the fact that she had just produced it. It seemed for a moment Elwyni would not believe her. Her face was still as she looked at Aryion. Then a flash of sadness darted across her eyes and she said, "You should never have named that child, Aryion." Elwyni turn and headed towards the door of another guest, and Aryion, heart pumping, darted along the hallway and down another set of stairs to the room where her baby was being kept, waiting to be sold or killed.


	2. Chapter 2

**8:97 Blessed Age**

**Danarius' Town House, Minrathous**

Winter had set in.

The air that streamed in from the open harbour was needle sharp on the bare faces of the people who still scurried through the streets, darting in and out of shops and buildings, trying to minimise their time in the open. From a distance the city seemed to dance, the ebb and flow of its citizens as they moved around, up to and away from each other looked like an orchestrated swirling pattern. It was a complex show put on for those rich enough to afford rooms in the high turrets of the white, away from the smell and dirt.

And in fact there were people high above, looking down on the crowds as they milled round the streets. Some were beautiful women in expensive clothes who regarded the scene only casually, more interested in how their figures might appear in the soft light of sunset as they stood by the window.

Slaves nervously darted to the windows, thin faces anxious to see the approach of their master's coach in order to be ready and waiting by the main door on their return.

Others watched just as intently but with a sense of calm and confidence, searching out some unfortunate individual who had said the wrong thing or sold the wrong goods and was now, unaware, about the feel the rush of cool air and the sudden shock of an arrow, and then, hopefully, nothing more. These observers viewed the scene dispassionately; quick eyes focused only on finding, following and eliminating their employer's target. If they had been asked, they might have said that there were many worse ways to die in a city run on magic.

In fact, in the great Tevinter capital city of Minrathous, very little went unobserved.

To lack knowledge would have been to lack power. The city, unlike those in the south, was not run by emperors or warrior kings, it was run by those with the best information, the longest history and the darkest Ability. And yet, in one of the highest, grandest towers in the city, no assassin kept watch on the roof, no slaves watched for their master's return from one of the never ending balls or Senate meetings, no beautiful woman preened or simpered as the sunlight faded; the shutters of the highest tower were closed against the world in the hopes of blocking out any intrusion.

The wind however, not one to be told where to go, whistled through the cracks in the window pane, rattling the glass and stretching out the flames of the candles covering the large wooden desk in the centre of the study. Despite the fact that the sun was now low on the horizon, the light in the room was easily bright enough to read by. The dozens of candles casted the illusion of warmth over the wintry, distant young man who sat with his elbows on the desk, his head resting in his hands as he read, with absolute focus, one of his many books. If he felt the chill in the air, or noticed the flames as they danced back and forth, there was no sign of it.

Every surface of the room was covered in and by books. Every wall, save only for the window and the door, was taken up with floor to ceiling shelving, each groaning under the weight of a thousand dead trees.

Even this was not enough. The floor itself was a mess of small towers of ledgers, tomes and grimoires. The table itself was equally caked with books, saving the small patches of space that the student's bony elbows took up and an almost empty, green bottle of wine. A pale hand now reached across to grab the bottle and the remaining mouthfuls were drained, all without the reader moving his attention from the page.

The study returned to stillness, the air thick with concentration. Danarius had taken over his household some two years ago at the age of eighteen, after the untimely and, some might say, not unexpected death of his parents. He was now often referred to in polite society as determined, as one to watch. Behind closed doors, when politeness was banished, these same people would agree he was an obsessive, a lunatic and still very much one to watch, though perhaps if only to make sure he wasn't casting a spell or holding a knife.

Danarius was an apprentice Magister, and despite the fact he was not as habitual as some in his use of his Ability, he had a level of determination that did not merely border on the fanatical but had long ago gained residency. He came from a family of deep pockets and long memories. He was at twenty blessed with a distant and calculating intelligence, and a king's ransom in gold.

He had learnt very early in his life that, unless used in the right circumstances, magic in itself was limited. Drawing in and channelling the power needed to manifest and shape the Fade took an inordinate amount of energy and concentration. If the caster had time, or could connect to the Fade from a safe vantage point, it could of course be useful. Most of the time, however, it was overly draining and left the caster open to other, more 'old fashioned' methods of attack.

He used his gift when necessary, but he treated it as only one of many tools in his arsenal. He realised that what he could achieve by spell casting he could achieve as easily, if not more so, though a drop of poison or a small cash expenditure. Oh, magic served a purpose in his life, but he knew not to rely on it. He recognised in the Magisters around him a dependence on this elemental, erratic force that left them vulnerable. Years of habit and reliance on one method of doing things had left the elite and powerful controlling families stagnant and unprepared for anything other than a magical assault. This was a vulnerability he intended to exploit, and all his considerable energy was now focused on discovering the thing that would allow him to do just that.

The Magisters were a select group of families bred for and heavy with Ability who, under the reign of Archon, controlled all power in the Tevinter Imperium, the kingdom that occupied northern Thedas. Constant in-fighting between them for ultimate control had created an arms race of deadly vitriol, each successive generation looking for new methods to manifest their power, to maintain their position and to remove any rivals.

Blood magic, the ultimate depravity, was common and uncommented upon. All knew that the Magisters practised it, but while their attentions were kept on each other, most of the citizens of the Tevinter Imperium chose to ignore the occasional disappearance and death of the poor, of farmers or, mostly, of elven slaves.

The use of magic was rife, and those systems that had been created to control it in the South were not enacted in the north. Occasionally a few tired Sisters or Mothers from Val Royeaux would be sent to the Imperium in an attempt to warn against the dangers of mages and blood magic, but nothing changed. The Magisters plotted and warred against each other and the city arrogantly continued in the same way it had for hundreds of years.

Yet this was not to say that the influence of the Chantry was not felt in other ways.

The final years of the Blessed Age were drawing to a close, and the city was awash with rumours and gossip about what the next Age would hold. It was the responsibility of the White Divine, the head of the Southern church, to see the signs and to name the next Age, and in naming it so shape its destiny.

Although, Danarius privately felt, it did not take the Divine to see the writing on the wall. Tensions were building in the South, and many now felt that the Kingdom of Orlais would soon fall. Even in distant Tevinter, the political fallout of such an event would need to be carefully controlled, and possibly manipulated.

The South had for many hundreds of years been no friend to the North, having first marched on the land and its Gods, spreading the then new and supposedly enlightened mono-theology of Andraste, and more recently having signed an accord with the Quanari, a race with which the Imperium still raged a bitter and bloody war.

But, if Orlais were to fall, or at least to lose its holding over the northern most lands of Ferelden, the resulting power shift would no doubt affect the lives of those in the Tevinter Imperium. The world, Danarius reflected, was a small place. While his so called peers fought amongst themselves for scraps of power, he had his eyes fixed on the South. Magic might very well make him a Magister in Tevinter, but politics could make him a Lord in Thedas as a whole. All he needed was an _edge_.

So he focused on one goal, and aside from the bottles of red wine and plates of food that were delivered at regular points during the day by one of his many slaves, there was very little that would have marked the turret, or the mansion in general, as occupied.

The night was now fully set in, and he felt his arms and shoulders protesting against the hours that he had held his position, moving only to drink or turn the page of the great volume in front of him. He sighed heavily, and began to roll his neck and head in small circles, loosening the stiffened muscles. A sharp pain shot through the left side of his neck, and he realised his body need a break, even if his mind didn't.

He stretched his pale arms above his head and yawned. He was a slender man, with a sallow complexion and light blonde hair, and in many ways he was unremarkable. He was of average height and features, the sharp blue of his eyes being his one distinguishing feature. He face was expressive and open, and he made a habit of smiling at people, in order to set them at their ease. He appeared friendly, and with his clear eyes and generous hospitality he was the focal point of many a young signorina's attentions.

He was in every respect a perfect representation of a courteous young man, which was exactly how he liked to be thought of. He dressed modestly, ate wisely, slept with only his own slaves and studied religiously. His only observable vice, if it could be called such a thing, was an enjoyment of fine wines. He made sure to maintain it, as he recognised that being too neat, too sterile, would draw as much attention to himself as any depravity might.

He blended in, bided his time and amassed his power. He made sure he was present, if only for an hour, at most social gatherings. He whispered in corners, and had a network of slaves in other houses to keep him informed. He hired assassins when he needed to, but was savvy enough to use this as a last resort. Danarius knew what so many of his contemporaries did not: that a well-placed word, at the right time and in the right ear, could devastate much more fully than one simple death. He had, in this way, already 'murdered' two whole families who had blocked his ascent.

He was duly expected to become a full Magister before his twenty-second birthday, despite his limited use of magic. He knew how people worked, he understood the nature of the game, and he played to win. It amazed him that other's found it so difficult. To Denarius it was absurdly simple, a puzzle easily solved.

And so, when he had stumbled on the writings of Nereda and found a true mystery, he had been unable to resist. A life that had, after only two decades, become predictable and threadbare had suddenly taken on a fascinating and mesmerising new aspect. If he could only now answer the riddle, if he could only wield the weapon of which it spoke, he would not only have solved a Age's old enigma, but would also be truly unstoppable.

His aching back now joined his neck in its complaints, and Danarius decided to stand and take a walk around the room in order to sooth and stretch his body. His drew his breath through his teeth as he looked at the state of the study, taking in the piles of useless books he had read and the even larger piles of books he had yet to read.

He was searching for a tool, a weapon that would give him power beyond which no other Magister, apprentice or otherwise, held. Years ago he discovered Nereda's attempts to forge a weapon that would be unlike no other. This weapon, he had read, would straddle the world between the living and the dead, and would be almost impossible to destroy.

It had been that very day his obsession had been born, and yet despite many years of research, bribery and murder he was no closer to an answer. All he had was a turret of books, which now demanded all his time.

Despite the hours spent studying, despite his lightning quick mind, he had in fact only managed to add a few pieces of information to the original: the weapon would be powerful, it would be magical but more than magic, it would be deadly and it would draw power from the land of the dead. In addition to this, he knew that it required lyrium, a lot of lyrium.

To most this would have proven a major hurdle, but Danarius, now he was head of the House, had sovereigns to melt. This was extremely useful as the lyrium ore was rare and very, very expensive. The sale of it was controlled by the Chantry, and in all but the most suspicious of cases it had to be imported from the Dwarven Thaigs in the South, a journey of several hundred sovereigns before the damned rocks had even been paid for.

The lyrium itself was a blue or red ore that, when ground down and mixed into a liquid potion, allowed mages to increase their mana, the energy they needed to cast spells. Raw lyrium, that is, lyrium before it is treated, is extremely poisonous to humans and elves, and even a small amount of exposure to it can cause hallucinations and fits; large amounts would kill instantly. In its treated form long term exposure or abuse could still cause madness and eventual death.

The dwarves, however, seemed to be immune to effects, and as a result they held a monopoly not only in mining the ore but also in exporting it via legal and illegal routes, meaning that it was almost impossible for any outside the church but the very rich to acquire it in large quantities. Danarius, sitting firmly in the second camp, now had a cellar full of it, and had no idea what he needed it for. It was... _frustrating._

He walked over to the window, intending to open it fully and let some fresh air into the chamber. He began the tricky business of navigating his way around or over the many mountains of books, lifting his legs high in order not to disturb the controlled chaos of the piles. But he must have been more tired than he realised, or his muscles too stiff, he may perhaps have even been a little drunk. Either way, as he lifted his leg to step over a particularly high stack, lost his balance and fell to the floor, sending the mound of books crashing down on top of him. He fell on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs, and swore loudly. Sitting up, he surveyed the damage.

The pile he had tripped over had fallen, taking with it the two nearest piles as well. His legs were covered in a number of heavy, dusty books, and so he reached down and began removing them, stacking them up neatly again next to him. As he worked through the books on his legs a word caught his eye. He stopped and peered down at the open page, not daring to believe what was in front of his eyes. He stopped breathing; his eyes darted back and forth across the words.

The language was arcane, but not illegible. Still, he nevertheless read and reread the passage to check what he was seeing. He breathed out again slowly, and pulled himself up, the books that covered his legs falling loudly and unnoticed to the floor. He walked haphazardly back to his desk, bumping all the while into the low piles of books that blocked his way, his eyes never leaving the page. With one hand he felt around for the chair back, finding it with clumsy, distracted fingers he landed heavily on the seat. Still his eyes had not left the page, darting back and forth as he took in the short the passage. His mind raced, trying to recognise words that had long ago fallen out of common use.

"_Telum" _the weapon_… _

_"..quam sanguine et de sanguine.." _made of blood... but more than blood, part of the blood?

_"..indolorleo.." _forged in.. discomfort?.. pain..

"_superste esthaec singulari.." _Many die.. no, many do not survive..

He paused. Many do not survive? That made no sense – what kind of weapon would it be if it left any survivors? Surely a weapon of prophecy should leave no one alive.

He read the passage again, trying to keep calm, trying to not build his hopes and yet desperate to make sense of the text.

"_Superste esthaec singulari, post creationen",_ after the creation…

"_vivum ferum impium"_the life of the weapon is unholy.. no, no, no, the living weapon is unholy.

The world stood still. Danarius' heart slowed and time stilled. He stared at the page as his brain whirled. The years of research, the endless expense, all the deaths and the threats fell away. He knew what the passage meant, and he knew what the weapon was. He read on.

"_liquifacta carnem est lyrvm, spiritum ambula repot estsi corpus supersesse. Robar aetati seligendum."_

Danarius' face broke into his trademark wide smile, but his blue eyes remained sharp and cool. He knew now how to make the weapon; Danarius laughed loudly at that thought, _although, of course, I will not be the one to 'make' this weapon_.

All he needed now was to find a person, _the_person, to undergo the process. And buy more lyrium.

I am on the twitterwebs! –at- ThePumpkinNinja


	3. Chapter 3

**9:12 Dragon**

**The Drylands, near Antiva**

Leto ran in from outside, his baby sister Varania following behind, shouting his name. The inside of the tent was quiet, and a large fire burned in a pit on the centre of the floor. Rugs and animal skins were dotted around the fire, and the young boy threw himself down, exhausted. His sister ran up behind and knelt by his head, pulling at his short, dark hair and poking him with chubby fingers.

"Come one, come on, come on, come on!" she wailed, "don't go to sleep, wake up, waaaaaake up!"

He sighed and rolled over, holding himself up on his elbows so he could look at her face, which was so different from his own. Leto was ten years old, and had only known life in the camp, with his mother, father and sister. He knew that his father was not his real one, and even if he hadn't he could have guessed. Leto the child was not so different from the baby his mother had carried out of Minrathous. He had retained his stillness and quiet, rarely speaking to hear the sound of his voice, his skin was still a warm brown and his hair as black as pitch. It was clear he would be good looking when he grew up, but where others saw his beauty and uniqueness, he saw only his differences.

He had grown into a subdued child, but when he smiled, a small delicate smile that only lifted one side of his mouth, he gave the sensation of a great torrent of laughter just out reach. He looked now at Varania, and felt again the painful realisation that there was no way they could be from the same blood. She had inherited her, he corrected himself, _our father's _red hair and mother's pale skin. As if to make the contrast starker, she was also noisy, demanding and hyper-energetic. Varania belonged in the world in a way that Leto felt he did not, could not.

He was acutely aware of the fact that he and his mother owed the clan their lives, and was deeply grateful to the kindness and acceptance they had shown them both, especially his adoptive father. The vague story of his mother's escape had entertained and thrilled him as he grew up, and in his young imagination she had fought tooth and nail in a great daring battle across the city, tearing hulking great humans in half with her bare hands.

But as he had grown, and recently as he had become fascinated by the clan's hunters, he had of course realised that there was no way his frail, thin mother could have fought anyone, but this knowledge only served to heighten his love and admiration for Aryion, and to strengthen his ties to his family and to the elven clan who had found them. Aryion had never told him what she had run from, only that they had had no choice but to escape, and that they owed their lives to his father, who had found them collapsed and near death in Tevinter.

And it had been a happy life. When Leto was two his mother had given birth to a baby girl, and so tied their futures to the clan. The two siblings had grown up fighting and pawing at each other, but despite his jealousy, Leto loved her more than anything else in the world. He remembered holding her in his arms as a baby, feeding her and caring for her when his own mother was too ill, as she so often was, to do it herself and his father was away hunting or trading. The second pregnancy and birth had very nearly killed Aryion, and as a result Leto had taken a great deal of responsibility for raising his baby sister. Leto never complained, he understood without knowing exactly why that his mother had struggled to bring him to the clan, and he owed her his happiness. Beyond that, he loved Varania and enjoyed caring for her.

_Although_, he thought as she began slapping him and wailing louder for his attention, _I could love her less._

With sudden quickness, he pounced on her and began to tickle her until she was screaming with laughter, hot tears rolling down her flushed face. She wriggled and kicked against him, but he continued his assault. He eventually only stopped when he thought there was a very real chance of her fainting or throwing up. Breathless and tired, the both lay on the soft furs and looked up at the pointed roof of the tent. The soft grey smoke from the fire twisted and turned as it was drawn up through the hole in the ceiling, and the only sound was the crackle of the wood as the sap hissed and popped.

Varania rolled onto her side, "Where are we going next?", she asked quietly.

"I am not sure. Why?" he replied in his unusual, stilted manner.

"I like it here. That's all."

Silence returned, and they continued to watch the tendrils of smoke make their escape.

"I like moving," Leto offered.

"No you don't. You just think you should. That's not the same as liking."

"Mother doesn't like to be in the same place."

"You're a liar. She doesn't like Teminter-"

"Te_vin_ter"

"Yeah, Te_min_ter, shut up, mum doesn't like that place. She likes here. I like here too. You like Teminter, but me and mum, we like here."

Leto punched her arm, not hard enough to really hurt her, but he knew she had said that to upset him. Varania at eight years old had already realised that her brother felt disconnected from his family, and she would use this knowledge to hurt him when she felt he was being to bossy, or wasn't listening to her properly. But she didn't want to upset him today, so she apologised.

Leto pursed his lips. Honestly, he didn't like moving any more than she did, but he felt he had to at least pretend to like it, to set an example for her. "I do not know where we will be next. But, you know that you have me? Does it matter where you are if you have your brother to look after you?"

Varania smiled, a big wide smile without guile or pretence and shook her head 'no', her hair flying around her in dirty strands. She jumped up and kicked Leto in the ribs, before running out of the tent. With a yelp of pain, he sprang to his feet and ran after her.

The clan moved often, following the flocks and herds of the animals they hunted. Tevinter in the winter was a bitter and barren land and they usually spent these months in the warmer climate of the South. Though since the civil war that had broken up the Orlaisan Empire these lands were becoming increasing wild and dangerous. Once spring and summer returned they usually moved back North. Despite the cities being crowded, the lands around them were often uninhabited for miles, and provided fertile land for farming and a wealth of animals for hunting.

Seasons passed slowly as the clan followed the sun, and the background to Leto's childhood has been a patchwork of colours.

The green rolling hills of rural northern Tevinter built gently into great blue snow-capped mountains; white and terracotta splashes made up of small farm holdings, villages or vineyards broke the seamless stretches of rising and falling valleys. Occasionally a great city would be passed, and the brilliant white of its painted buildings and coliseums were almost blinding.

From this the land would transform with each mile from the rich verdant green of his motherland to the sandy browns and dirty greens of Antiva, the white and terracotta square buildings that clung to the land in Tevinter becoming deep, cold stone towers reaching for the sky. Brilliant flashing hues in the huge windows of the Chantry buildings that were found in every town and village reflected the white sunlight of the Antivan sky. Earth and air mingled in the dusty countryside and coasts where the clan camped, and fruits, vegetables and seafood in oranges, reds, pinks and blues decorated his plate on a daily basis.

From Antiva, past Rivain and on to Orlais the spectrum would shift again, and the sandy browns and reds would darken to rich deep forests, wide open country and intricate, stylish cities. Here the clan could hardly avoid interaction with the human population, so they sold their crafting materials, weapons and clothing in the Alienages and markets of these winding maze-like hives. Each building was a different colour, some white like home, others brown or red or sand coloured. Courtyard gardens fought against the smells of so much humanity with little success, and underfoot the colours were visceral and biological.

But it was the humans who were the focus here for Leto. They wore materials in purples, blues and reds that he had never seen in nature. Gold and silver sparkled at the human's wrists and throats and in the hair and ears of the women small, iridescent pearls reflected back the light. Though the clan kept away from the wealthy, often some noble or another would have reason to come to their stall and make those purchases that were better transacted by a travelling merchant than a local. And then the cycle would begin again, the vivid unnatural colours would melt back through the browns before finally becoming the greens and blues of home.

This was the only life that Leto and Varania had known, and they were too young to appreciate what benefits it offered them. Leto, for instance, could already speak the common language, as well as low Tevinter and some Antivan. He had seen most of the known world, and could describe with childlike accuracy the towns and villages they past.

But to him, moving just meant hardship. The clan was large, and the tents and carts were heavy. They kept Halla, deer like animals, to help them to move their supplies, but then the animals needed constant supervision and attendance, which in fact created almost more work than having them saved. The adults were often away from days, hunting or trading for supplies, and Aryion was too frail to pay him much attention. The other children were friendly, and Varania had many friends. Leto however felt shy and uncomfortable around them, although they never really did anything to warrant his discomfort. Leto felt that if they could just settle in one place, if they could stop moving from town to town, then his mother might get stronger and his father wouldn't need to be away from camp so often. They could be a family.

Whenever his mind drifted through these thoughts the image of Tevinter would bubble to the surface. He didn't know why he liked Tevinter as much as he did. Something about the place seemed to settle him. He sensed it was where he was meant to be. Whenever they travelled away from the Imperium, and especially when they reached as far south as Orlais, he felt uneasy, he had an awareness of something being fundamentally wrong. He would often have nightmares, screaming in the middle of the night and waking up the clan as they all slept in the large tent he and Varania had just left. He could never remember the dreams in the morning, but sometimes he would go and sit by himself and cry.

He would also often become violently sick, his body rejecting the food his mother or, lately, his sister would prepare for him. He had no idea why he felt worse the further South he travelled, or why his symptoms were invariably alleviated as the clan moved north again. He was pretty certain no one had realised the pattern, and for all his longing to settle, he said nothing. He didn't understand why, but the clan needed to move, and he was too fearful of being left behind to raise any complaints. Only Varania knew how he really felt, and for all her mischief and meanness towards him, she loved him dearly and would never tell anyone his secret.

**9:20 Dragon**

**The Asarial Forest, Tevinter**

Varania turn on her brother, her eyes narrowed to slits.

"What did you just say to me?" she hissed, her high, sharp voice vibrating with anger. Although a head shorter than Leto and by far weaker than him, the teenage elf was an intimidating sight. Her anger radiated off her like heat, her arms trembling with barely controlled tension as she spat at the floor by her brothers bare fee.t "I asked you a question."

Leto held his head high and looked her straight in the eye. The differences between himself and his sister had never been so pronounced as they were now, standing opposite each other in the great tent where they had played together as children. Varania's body trembled in anger, her long red hair hung in heavy tresses from her pale head, her green eyes – the one feature they shared – sharp and hate filled. Leto, in contrast, stood tall and straight, his body stock still. His dark skin and short black hair blended into the dull gloom of their surroundings, only the constantly lit fire casting jumping shadows across him gave any hint of movement. The siblings stood their ground, neither willing to back down.

"You will not see him again."

"And who in the Void do you think you are? How _dare_ you try to tell me what I can or cant do? You're nothing," she spat, her words tumbling out of her mouth faster than she could control them, "nothing but a whelp and a foundling. You don't belong here, and you don't have any rights to order me around."

A faint alarm sounded in Varania's mind as she spoke, but she pushed it down. She was angry. She was angry with her brother for always taking control, always being listened to and looking down on her with his high judgement and strict codes of conduct. He suffocated her, and he didn't even try to understand her. Wicked excitement ran through her as she finally got to say to his face all those things she'd thought.

"You think you're so amazing, but you're not," her voice had slowed, each word being carefully enunciated to be sure he heard everything she said. "Let me tell you something, oh brother of mine. You're nothing. You're not a member of this clan – look at you, trying so hard to fit in. Running off to be a great hunter, letting all the others fawn and paw over you like some kind of pet. Trying to buy your place – that's what you're doing, you know that? _You're whoring yourself_. You're not even a real member of our family, let alone the clan. Are you even my brother? You don't look like mother, or me. You don't look like _anyone_. Maybe you're not even a real person. Maybe you're just a wild animal, running around in the woods, killing other wild animals. Like some dog."

And with that Leto leapt at her, slapping her face as hard as he could. For all her big talk, Varania was small and slight boned and Leto was quick and strong. She crumpled to the ground under the swift swipe of his open palm across her cheek. She looked up at him from the floor, a deep red mark already vivid on her skin. Leto stepped back, horrified.

"I-I'm sorry 'rana. I'm sorry, I do not.. I never.." the words fell from his mouth, the horror and shame on his face and in his voice unrecognisable from his normally calm and low tones. He fell to silence as he watched her gently touch the livid mark of her cheek with her fingertips, wincing and then pulling away. She said nothing, but her eyes shone bright with tears. Whether they were tears of pain or shock, Leto couldn't guess.

He knelt down beside her, and reached out with his hand, horrified when she shied away from him, letting her hair fall over her face so he couldn't see her.

"Please, please 'rana. Please don't be frightened of me. I couldn't.. you're the only one who knows me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.. I don't what came over me. Please forgive me. I just.. he's not what we thought he was, he's .. he's wrong somehow.. and it's my fault for letting him in, but please, please trust me. Please, you're so brave and clever, and with the opportunity the Keeper's giving you, to be First. Don't you see, 'rana? You would always have a place here. You'd always have a home.

"You're.. right.. about me. I don't belong here, and without you and mum I think I would stay in Tevinter forever. I know I'm not," his voice cracked, and Varania looked up him through her hair, "I know I'm not normal, and I know you don't love me anymore. But I love you. I want you to be safe."

And suddenly her brother was crying. Her brother, the one who for all her life had been as strong and controlled as an oak tree, was crying, really, really crying. Varania, all her anger forgotten, swept her arms around him, and rocked him gently as great heaving sobs escaped his tall, sinewy frame. She could feel the muscles in his arms shake with each desperate moan, and she stroked him slowly and gently, until his breathing evened out.

She had never before heard her brother speak so honestly, so _normally_. Like everything else, he always marshalled his language, hiding himself behind formality and politeness. But she knew that he had just bared his soul to her, and she knew that what she had said had been desperately cruel and unkind. She had deserved the strike he had given her, and she told him as much.

Leto shook his head angrily and pulled away from her. His hair was so short he couldn't hide his expression from her the way she could from him, and she saw his eyes dart to the area on her cheek which still stung and must now, she assumed, be beginning to bruise. The look of anguish that flooded his face, his red rimmed eyes filling again with tears, made her feel guilty and angry all at once.

"Look, it's ok, really. It's just a slap; you could've done much worse," Leto drew in a sharp breath and Varania realised that may not have been the most delicate thing to say. "Hey listen, if it means that much to you, I'll stop seeing him and rethink this First thing. I'm not saying I'll go in for it, but I'll talk to the Keeper again. Ok?"

Leto nodded. He picked up his sisters hands, so different from his own, and threaded their fingers together.

"Once we were friends, Varania. I do not know what happened."

Varania sighed. "You happened, Leto. You don't understand how powerful you are. Everyone is obsessed by you, where you came from, your ability to hunt, the way you look, your voice.. everything. It's hard to be friends with an idol, it's even harder to be a sister to one."

Leto snorted in disagreement, but kept her hand in his own. "I am none of those things. I do not know how to be any different, but I wish I were. I wish I could be like you, make friends as easily as you, be as passionate as you. I never feel like I am a part of things. Perhaps that is why I found him so attractive. I do not know anymore."

Varania stiffened slightly at the mention of the man who had started the argument between them. "I want to see him one more time. I want to tell him myself that I won't see him again. Don't you dare try to stop me, Leto."

Leto lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "Of course."


	4. Chapter 4

**9:18 Dragon**

**Asariel Forests, Near Asariel City, Tevinter**

Leto woke early. Today was the first day of the hunt, and he was almost bursting with energy. He jumped quickly from his bedding and slipped easily around his sleeping clans people to the flap that served as a tent door. He was sixteen, having come of age in early summer, and full of the vitality and energy that youth and good health can provide. He ducked quickly under the edge of tent, anxious not to let the early morning light in and wake his family and the others.

The hunt, ceremonial more than actual, would begin at midday, but his anticipation and desire to become an official hunter were too great to simply lie in bed, waiting for the rest to slowly wake. Grabbing a long sword from a chest by the tent, he darted into the forest nearby in search of somewhere quiet to practice.

In many ways puberty had had little effect on him. His voice had deepened embarrassingly low, making he even less talkative now than he had been before, usually only speaking with his sister for any length of time.

Tall now for an elf he was still a little sinewy, but it was clear that this would turn to muscle, and he was already strong enough to carry a sword half his height and weight. His body may have changed from a scrawny youth to a powerful adult, but he still had the high cheekbones and slender limbs of his mother and her sludgy green, wide set eyes. His nose remained long and straight, giving his features a haughty manner that was in some part responsible for his isolation.

But in many ways he seemed arrogant, not just in his features. His natural reticence and shyness over his breaking voice had been expounded by his training to become a hunter. Careless chatter would not aid him, so he had learnt to speak when he had something to say and otherwise to remain silent and to listen. His beauty, stillness and the fact he hid a wicked sense of humour from all but his family would have been difficult barriers to overcome if it wasn't for his humble gratitude for the life he had been given.

However, the thing that separated him most was his skin. Unlike his peers, he had refused the intricate tattoos that were marked onto their faces and arms at the beginning of puberty. It was not that he had no loyalty to his clan. Far from it. He loved the clan more than he knew, more than he could ever express even to himself. But he had never shaken the sense that he did not belong, that he was a guest, albeit a welcome one. His mother had a husband and Varania was a member by birth. It was perhaps the one thing in his life which still caused him to resent his sister, especially as she seemed so unappreciative of it.

_Perhaps_, he thought wryly, _when I marry I may get my tattoos_. He thought for a second of the young women, childhood friends who were now taking on a whole new aspect. Girls he used to be wary of were now suddenly shy around _him_. They would giggle and stare at him when he practiced his fighting, washed himself or cooked for the clan. Conversely, he now found himself growing less interested in them as their interest in him grew. He was familiar with sex, and having helped with numerous difficult births both of the clan's women and of the Halla, Leto knew well enough the facts of life. And yet beyond a vague physical reaction to their stares found he had little interest in the girls now they were becoming women. If anything, he found their company less enjoyable, as they would no longer argue or joke with him - they seemed to have nothing interesting to say.

Where his ability to concentrate on a deer or bear trail had helped him become a worthy hunter, he found his focus and intensity only hindered him in his personal relationships. He knew he didn't have the casual friendliness of his sister, and he wondered briefly if he should be worried about this. He felt annoyed and tired by the stupid games and social back and forth of the other teenagers. The boys of the clan too, once his friends and allies, seemed also to be falling under a spell of awkwardness and stupidity, mooning around after the girls or each other as if they had just discovered the sun and could not stop basking in it. Leto found the whole thing absurd.

It wasn't that he didn't like sex. Based on the clumsy and somewhat awkward tumble he had had a few months ago, it seemed to be enjoyable enough, if a little embarrassing afterwards. He wondered if the others had even experienced it. Perhaps they had not, and that was the reason they focused their energies it. But sex had been momentary high, and though he had enjoyed the power it gave him at the moment of orgasm, it had held nothing to the hours of tension, the slow burning build-up of adrenalin and the rush of blood, anger, energy and control that he found in the hunt. He felt truly himself when the tension built up in his veins, and he relished the warm knot in his belly as he watched his prey, unseen, from whatever hedge or tree he was using as shelter. The moment of calm as he took a deep breath and _leapt._

He preferred it when the animal fought back, and lived for the days when he would receive a wound from a stray horn or claw. The sense of danger, of his own mortality, sent shivers running through his blood, focused his mind into a clear point and gave his life a sense of purpose that he simply could not recreate in any other aspect of his general existence, even during sex.

He was, he often thought, damaged. The only thing that centred him, that made him feel truly elven and not simply an animal, was his family and the sense of community he felt in the clan, even if his individual relationships within it seemed to be eroding.

o0o

He wandered aimlessly away from the camp in the early morning sun, lost in his own thoughts. He wasn't frightened by unknown territory, not least because it was always likely he would be the most dangerous thing in the vicinity. Besides, he was in Tevinter. He knew it was his homeland, and he always felt that the land recognised him, and welcomed him back. He always felt more.. _alive _when he was here, the dull ache he carried with him, the vomiting and the nightmares all faded away when he was in the Imperium.

The humans lived here in the winter, and he wasn't sure why they could not. Why couldn't they trade for food during the bitter months, as they did in Orlais? There was something different about life in the Imperium, Leto could sense it. The elder members of the clan were always more... more watchful when they arrived, and didn't seem to relax again until they were back on their way to Antiva. Leto felt grateful that the lands here were so rich, that the hunting was so plentiful, it would have been reckless _not_ to come back here year after year, as he was certain the clan would avoid the whole country if they could.

Aryion hated those summer months in Tevinter, and she rarely left the encampment. She shook continuously with nerves when Leto left the camp, jumping at every sound, fearing news of his death or capture whenever anyone opened their mouth to speak to her. At these times she wondered if she should have told her children more about her life before her son was born. However, such was her relief at the life she had provided her children, away from the harsh realities many of her species faced that she had never found enough justification to tell them what the world was like.

So Aryion kept her silence, and spent half the year in a state of anxiety unequalled and misunderstood. For his own part, Leto hated having to balance his passion with her fears, but he loved her and tried to be selfless as much as he was able, and he was mildly alarmed when he realised how far from camp he had now drifted. He didn't recognise the area he had found himself in, and glanced up at the sky. The sun was still low, and he estimated he had an hour before it was noticed that he was gone; time enough to get his bearings and head back.

He had had found himself in a small clearing. There was mulch under his feet, and the trees around him were old and fat. The air smelled of mould. Leto leant against a tree, enjoying the calm and the damp leaves beneath his feet. He was standing still, breathing deeply and slowly when he sensed someone watching him. He shifted position slightly, almost unperceptively realigning his centre of balance and tensing his muscles. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow change, a slight movement that was subtly different from the general rustle of the forest, and he sprang towards it, instinct and addiction driving him, pulling his sword out of its scabbard whilst in motion, eyes narrowed and heart beating. He felt the exhilaration of the blood and adrenaline coursing through his body, the nerves and anticipation tightening his stomach as he landed on his prey.

He raised his sword above his head, the sharp blade thinning to a murderous point when suddenly, without warning or understanding, he found himself on the opposite side of the clearing, all the air knocked out of him and a dizzy sickness in his mind. He felt dazed in a way he had never known possible, as if he were experiencing the world through metres of murky water. His vision was impaired, all he could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing through his body and, for perhaps the first time in his life, Leto felt fear. He could make out, barely, a shape moving towards him across the open space in front of him. He tried to stand, and immediately fell to the ground, more vulnerable now than he had been before. He tried again, and again began to topple over, only this time he was caught before he pitched forward. Despite the fear running through his veins, Leto still tried to free himself, stumbling weakly against the thing that held him upright.

"Alright, alright. Calm, listen, _calm down_, the effects will wear off in a moment, quicker if you stop breathing like that. What were you thinking anyway? Who exactly jumps ten feet onto a stranger and then threatens him with a sword? You're an Elf? Mmm, that's new. Killer Elves, ha ha! I'm telling you, listen, breathe slowly and it'll pass more quickly. You didn't exactly provide me with much option, you know that? I admit I may have put a little more _ooomph_ into it than was _perhaps_ necessary, but you just jumped out at me! You're not actually that big are you? You seemed bigger when you were on top me. Your tall though, taller than the ones back home. How'd you manage to carry that sword anyway? You think you can stand now?"

All of this was delivered in such a confident, jokey manner than Leto, once he had gained his bearings, was surprised to see a young boy not much older than himself. Warily the elf rubbed his temples, regarding his attacker with interest as much as caution. The boy before him was slightly taller than him, as most human were, and much more stocky, with spiked brown hair and a wide face. His nose had been broken at some point in the past and badly set, but rather than ruining his face it gave him a rather adventurous air, as if he had a history of tavern fighting and tall tales to tell. It made him look older than the sixteen years he was.

"I can stand. What did you do to me?"

"Magic. I sorta pushed out, and off you flew! Maker, if you had seen your face! Like I said, I think I probably overdid it a bit, but I don't think you gave me much choice."

Leto glared at him, fidgeting his hands. He face was impassive; his eyes narrowed and exposed by his short hair, and for a second the air was filled with tension, as each boy sized the other up. Then Leto smiled his half smile, and the boy grinned back.

"No, I perhaps did not. My name is Leto, and I apologise for trying to kill you." The boy laughed, and his face lit up with such genuine warmth and mischief that Leto found himself, against all experience, laughing as well. "S'alright," the human said between giggles, "Gave me some practice, so no harm done. My name's Callum. What are you doing out here?"

He spoke quickly, and his accent was one the elf didn't recognise, though the dialect he spoke, Arcanium, was similar enough to Tevinter and easy to follow. He spoke quickly with a smile across his wide face. He was friendly, and Leto was surprised to find himself answering the stranger's questions and asking his own in return. He was difficult not to warm too. His face was open and he was so different from the world Leto knew that he found himself genuinely interested in the conversation, and they sat in the clearing and chatted happily back and forth.

"I have never spent much time around humans. You are not what I expected."

Callum laughed loudly and honestly, so much so that his whole body shook. "You know what, I believe you? Well, let me be the first _human_ to shake your hand!"

Callum stuck his hand out in front of him, but Leto just stared at it. Undeterred, the young man grabbed his hand and took it in his, pumping it up and down. Leto raised an eyebrow at this gesture, but began to move his hand along with his new friend.

Callum found himself fascinated by this strange elf, with his haughty appearance and aggression, his obvious physical strength and controlled speech. Callum was a mage, and was training in the human city of Asariel, about two miles from the clan's current camp. He had come into the forest to practice away from the distractions of his family, and elves in his experience were small, weedy little things, scurrying around carrying out tasks for their masters. They were part of the furniture of his house, and the houses of his friends, neither interesting nor dull, simply present. But this Leto was wholly new, and Callum was enchanted with this strange new toy he had found.

Callum wasn't particularly cruel or unkind, but he was born to an influential family, a family perhaps made more influential by the relatively small size of his home city. Of course mages grew in his line, but Callum was the first family member in generations to have enough natural Ability for it to be worth considering moving him to Minrathous, and to the tutelage of a Magister. He was not a unkind boy, but he was already aware of his status and power, and a lifetime of privilege coupled with his magical ability had given him a confidence that could sharpen knives and a sense of entitlement that gave him the absolute knowledge that anything he wanted was his for the taking.

"So you.. What? Just travel from place to place? That must be amazing.. all the things you see!", Callum asked, imagining himself as a romantic Rivaini mage, travelling from city to city meeting women and breaking hearts.

"Ah, yes, it is amazing. The cold nights, the hours on foot! No, I would prefer to settle. I understand that we must.. it seems we must.. move to live, but your existence? You have a family, a home."

"Maker's breath, elf! I wouldn't wish my family on an ogre! Obviously your family are a blighted sight better than mine."

Leto paused, unsure how to put into words what he wanted to say, "My family is.. not perfect. My mother is nervous and my sister is wild. Yet, I love them. I would want a quiet life for my mother, in a settled place. For my sister?", the elf broke into a deep laugh, "A strong husband to direct her and a kind lover to listen to her complain!"

Callum reached across a slapped Leto on his back, joining in with his laughter. "Your sister," Callum replied, "Proves that women are women, whatever species! I've got two younger brothers, and they're both idiots. Neither has any Ability – magical ability, I mean", he explained at Leto's raised eyebrow, "which is all that matters, when you get down to it."

"What do you mean?" Leto asked, but Callum shook his head, and changed the subject. Leto, unaware of the politics that came with Ability or of the history of elves in Tevinter, found this strange exotic human creature, with his clipped accent and fast speech, wide smile and quick laughter good company. It was refreshing to have someone he could just talk to, someone who wasn't always trying to clumsily flirt with him or make him feel like an outsider.

"So tell me more about your sister," Callum instructed with a smile.

Time drifted by, and the two young men chatted back and forth happily in the clearing, enjoying the sun on their faces and the novelty of each other's company. They might have continued in this way for many hours, except for the sudden appearance of a red-headed female elf.

She came hurtling into the clearing, a scrape on her knee and mud on her face. She looked wild, and her expression was one of absolutely fury. Callum had never seen anything like it, and he found himself sneering at her in distaste at the same moment his stomach lurched with desire. She stormed straight up to Leto and swore at him in Tevinter for at least a minute before she had calmed down enough to actually speak.

"You moron. Mother is frantic with worry and you're about to miss the hunt. Where have you been? Who's this? What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On. Leto?"

Leto jumped to his feet in one swift movement and began to run out of the clearing, the younger female elf behind him, all thoughts of his new friend forgotten until Callum called out –

"Who's she? What's happened?"

Leto turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, "I am going to become a man! The girl is my sister!", and with that both elves disappeared into the forest. Callum stood still in the clearing, replaying the events of the morning. He decided he would give more time to the elf Leto. He was interested by his bravery, his quiet and his novelty. Callum also found the sister had made an impression on him, even in the brief moment he had seen her. She had been filthy, rude and unladylike, and he felt a tell-tale tug in his groin when he pictured her shouting over her brother. He decided that these elves were too rare and too interesting to share, at least for now, with anyone else. _I will leave them here, in the forest; no one else, I'm sure, knows that they are here._ Callum knew he could locate Leto using magic, and continue their conversation another day, so he happily turned back the way he had come, returning to his city and his privilege.

I am on twitter! –at-thepumpkinninja


	5. Chapter 5

**9:02 Dragon Age**

**Danarius' Town House, Minrathous**

The sun grew hotter and the baby struggled against its coverings. Aryion moved to the edge of the busy street and loosened the rough woollen blanket being used to poorly disguise the child that had been at her back. Panting, she glanced over her shoulder. The man in the red robe was still behind her. She was leant against the hard stone wall, but she quickly pushed off against her shoulders and used the momentum to force her aching body into the crowded street, hoping to become lost in the torrent of people. Trying hard to blend into the thronging mass, Aryion nevertheless felt herself careering rather than slipping by unnoticed.

She looked behind her again, trying hard not to lose her balance as she kept stealing glances backwards. She couldn't see the figure in red, and took a moment to catch her breath. She was deeper in the winding city centre of Minrathous, a trembling island amid a hurricane of purpose and energy. A flash of colour caught the corner of her eye, and before she could think about what she had seen her legs, driven by instinct and adrenaline, moved her forward again. _How much longer can you keep this up?_ a snake-like voiced hissed in her head.

A tight knot of panic, sitting heavily in her stomach, was beginning to make her feel sick. The sun was higher in the sky, beating down on her and her young cargo. It was not yet the middle of the day and the baby would need feeding soon. They were still far from the outskirts of Minrathous. The red robed man _must_ be following her, and she had completely lost her bearings. Head lashing from side to side, she tried desperately to see something she recognised amongst the heaving population that surrounded her. The city was not unknown to her, but she had never before tried to navigate it on her own, let alone on the run.

Unsure what to do and desperate not to draw attention to herself, Aryion slung the small bundle across her chest. It was clear now that she was carrying a child, but at least, with his head rested against her chest and the sound of her heartbeat keeping rhythm, Leto was unlikely to cry out. The same thought circled in her mind, _my baby, my baby, my baby_. Trying hard to appear casual, Aryion fixed her face with what she hoped was the happy, tired look that nurses wore with such pride. A slight smile, an air of authority and exhaustion.. _don't look at me, I'm just a woman walking her mistress' child before the midday sun forces us inside again_. Only she couldn't quite breathe, and she knew that she looked frightened and guilty.

Making a snap decision, terrified that she was being followed, she ducked into a side road which turned out to be barely wider than her bone thin frame. She felt the coarse stone tearing at the skin of her arms and shoulders as she forced her way through the narrow channel. Panicking, she realised she couldn't turn around. She was trapped, and if the neck of the alley suddenly filled with guards then she would only be able to stand still, waiting to see if they would be able to reach her. Her heart beating wildly, the panic in her stomach causing small pinpricks of anxiety to run down her arms, she worried for a moment that she might drop the baby, and then thought snuck up on her that it would be easier if she did.

The notion died in her mind as quickly as it had risen, and she pushed onwards against the pressing walls. Everything she was going through was for him. She struggled and put her meagre strength into scraping her body through the final metre of the alley and popped out into the busy street it had led onto. Without pausing she spun round to see if the red robed man had followed her. The narrow passage was empty. She breathed deeply, the warm air of the open street burning the grazes on her bare shoulders. She tied the baby in place, but she kept her arm underneath him, for her comfort more than his safety. Once again, she stepped into the throng of people, and tried to disappear.

o0o

Aryion had escaped from her Master's house that morning, as the sun rose. Quietly, and as quickly as she felt she could, she had slunk through the cellar rooms where the other elves slept. She had seen, through slit windows set high above her head, the large paws of the guard dogs as they patrolled the grounds. But they were there to keep people out, and being already in she had reasoned they wouldn't pay her much attention. They knew her, and although not trained to be friendly as she understood some animals could be, they hadn't been intelligent enough to realise she shouldn't be leaving.

On light feet she darted up the narrow, damp stairwell that led from the slaves' quarters to the main kitchen. Not two hours ago this room had been full of frenetic energy as a dozen frightened, eager elves had cooked the small, sweet foods that the humans liked to eat. Sugared fruits, meat cooked in wines and honey, a hundred little mouthfuls endlessly being sent above on silver plates worth more, Aryion knew, than she was. The thought of her value had never really occurred to her.

She had, like many, been born into slavery and knew no different. Thoughts of freedom or of injustice had never troubled her, and why would they? Everyone she knew was a slave, everyone she heard of was a slave. A whole society of elves, friends, family, lovers who were all in the same situation... How could she have known that there was something else? Another way to live? Life was easy in the sense that it was regular, and she had food and a dry, if small, dormitory to sleep in. Maker knew there were many who had worse. She was pretty enough to be cared for and useful to her master, yet not exceptional enough to be requested for a higher purpose, with higher responsibility. Life, such as it was, was stable, and required no difficult thinking.

It had been the arrival of the other elves, the _Dalish_ elves, over a year ago that had given her the courage, now, to run with her child. The word '_Dalish'_ felt strange in her head and she had never spoken it aloud. She wasn't sure even if the other slaves knew of their existence. If it hadn't been for chance she never would have heard of them either.

Over a year before, in the winter of 9:01, she had been cleaning the fireplace in her Master's study. It was a hard job, and the filth and soot that came away from the chimney filled her lungs for days afterwards, causing her bony chest to heave with deep, painful coughs. But despite this it was a task she enjoyed. It was quiet and solitary. The repetitive action, the thrust of her arms as they pushed the horsehair brush up and down the stone was meditative and calm. She was asked now when the hearths and chimneys needed cleaning as she didn't complain, and was small enough to climb up inside the narrow stone tunnel and sweep out the soot.

She had been doing this when she had heard the Master and another enter the room. Unbothered, she continued to climb. She held no power, and she knew of no reason why she should leave because He had entered. He wouldn't notice her if she was stood in the centre of the room, so little did she matter. So she continued her task, quietly and competently, as the conversation floated and echoed in broken pieces up to her.

"…How long have they been here?..." Her Masters voice, clipped and sharp. Annoyed.

An answer was mumbled, obviously one the messenger did not want to give. Uninterested, Aryion kept up her work, scrubbing up and down, her legs braced against the wall, the soot floating down from her hands and arms like snow.

"…anything? Who is the Keeper?..." Angry now.

A dim blue light reflected from the hearth up the chimney, not strong, not yet, but enough to warn Aryion that her Master was building his power. She felt the hairs on her arms pull and her mouth filled with the metallic taste of the Fade. The messenger had better have something to say that the He would want to hear. Idly, she wondered who he was. She couldn't make out the voice, so he must be standing at the far end of the room, near the door. _Sensible place, if he isn't burnt alive before he can use it._

She felt no sympathy or empathy for his plight, in the same way trees feel no sympathy for fire wood. A life of slavery had taught her many years ago that maintaining connections to others simply left her open to additional pain and suffering. It was the nature of a slave to be clinical and dispassionate, because where would passion take you? There were no dreams to chase in the world below stairs.

However she was _intrigued_. The Master so rarely allowed his power to manifest, she wondered if He would actually kill the messenger with it, or if he would manage to say something useful enough to spare his life. Aryion shuffled quietly down the breast, still sweeping as she should, but listening more carefully.

"…..is not known to us. This Dalish is not one of the tribes that rest here each winter. This tribe is... new, lord. They, well, my lord, they wish to enter the city and to trade."

Aryion suddenly felt sorry for these creatures who seemed to believe they had any chance of life without the protection of a human. The idea itself seemed impossible, and yet to hear it put into words was... shocking. It went against what she knew in such a fundamental way that the messenger may as well have said The Maker Himself had materialised in the kitchens and asked for honey. It was unthinkable. Unnoticed, she stopped sweeping and shifted her position, bracing her bony shoulders and shins against the stone walls, angling herself so her clever ears could hear more.

"Enter the city? To what end?"

The blue light flared brighter_._

"My lord, it seems that they are not interested in freeing the slaves, as was first thought. They only wish to trade. They need money, sirrah, or so the scout has said…"

Aryion nearly cried out in shock, but managed to keep her tongue still. _Free the slaves? Impossible. How would I live_?, Aryion thought scornfully, _who would feed me, house me? Freedom.. the freedom to die, perhaps, or to be stolen away in the night by the Qunari._ She could easily understand the anger in her Master's voice. _We have no capacity for freedom, we are weak and without our masters we would die._

Aryion felt sure her Master would laugh aloud at the idea of these elves wandering the city and trading with humans, before burning this idiot alive. But the Master replied, His voice slow and deliberate, "Give the twenty four hours. If by then they have not complete their _tasks_", He spat the word, "Go to their camp and kill or burn whatever has been left. The ones in the city will be sold."

She heard the scrabbling sound of the messenger hurrying from the room, and the hiss of her Master drawing His breath in through His teeth. For the first time in her life she felt the question, cold and deceitful, enter her mind: _If they can walk the city, why can't I?_

o0o

Now out in the open air, with the sun not even at its apex and its heat already crushing down on her, Aryion wondered at her stupidity. She had nothing, no food, water or money. She hadn't even brought clothes for the baby, and had been forced to steal the rough woollen blanket from the stables of her Master's house. The streets were heaving with bodies, humans and elf. Another attacked had occurred, and the crowds buzzed with talk of the traitorous Qunari.

Frightened and alone, Aryion held Leto close to her chest, put her head down and forced herself to walk slowly and calmly through the crowds. Word will be out now of her escaped, and running would attract more attention than she did already. Heart pounding in her chest, she tried to keep herself steady as every nerve in her body screamed at her to run. There were guards whose job it was to patrol the town, though thankfully she could see none at that moment. She daren't think about what would happen if they were caught. No guardsman would be concerned about the child, as he had no value yet, but she was worth money. Whether her value was enough to stop her execution she didn't know, but she doubted it. Was she worth more alive and cleaning chimneys or dead as an example to others? Leto had no chance, and would likely just be dropped to the street if the guards caught her.

With this thought her resolved tightened and she pushed the knot away. Concentrating on the floor, keeping to the backstreets, walking as slowly as she dared, she eventually came to the city walls. She needed water, and Leto needed feeding badly. He didn't grizzle or complain, but she knew from her friends' experiences as wet nurses that human babies needed feeding frequently, and elven babes couldn't be much different?

Too frightened to stop and too frightened not to Aryion dithered in a small alley near the city wall, her breath coming in short, dry gasps. She was so thirsty her throat burned with every mouthful of air her tired lungs demanded. The heat reflected off the white buildings, hitting her as heavily and as surely as any Magister's staff across her back.

Leto moved, fidgeting against the scratchy wool, and she looked down at the face of her child, her baby boy who must be so hungry, so uncomfortable and yet who didn't make a sound, and she was overcome by a rush of love. A love so strong that she felt it fill her, she felt it course through her like blood and she knew, _she knew_, she had to keep moving, had to get out of the city. She never thought about what she would do if she did make it past the fortifications. She only knew her son had a better chance of life away from Minrathous.

Her son. She didn't know who the father was - she had no idea when exactly she had conceived him. At the correct time there had been another of Danarius' Wintersun festivals, when the slaves were passed round like wine and used with less thought. She had also at that point become close with another slave. She hadn't loved him, but he had once caught a glass goblet she had dropped and so saved her from a whipping. She had felt she needed to do something for him in return.

Leto could be anyone's, but when she looked at him she saw only herself. She was overwhelmed by a sense of belonging, of connection when she looked into his face – such an overpowering feeling it filled her, she who had spent her entire life weeding out empathy in order to survive. To Aryion, the moment she had felt the baby kick, years of hard won armour had rusted away and she had felt the full force of a mother's love impale her.

To a casual observer there was little resemblance between mother and son. He had the ears, the long body and straight nose that would always tell the world he was elven, and therefore second class. But his skin was darker than his people, the colour of lightly tanned skins: a pale brown, similar to the human farmers after a day in the early sun. Though not as dark as the people of the east, his warm tea-stained skin was unusual for an elf, a species of iridescent paleness and brown or red hair. And that was the other trait that separated him. His hair was as deep, black and thick as the sugary tar used in the cakes and sweets the humans ate.

Yet when she looked at him she saw only herself. She saw her green eyes, her high cheekbones. She recognised herself in his small, limited expressions and marvelled and rejoiced in his tiny, delicate fingers, his ears which were so thin the light shone through their pointed tips, his smell and his gentle, quiet resilience. She remembered his tiny hand reaching out for her as they took him away. She began to move, with determination and speed, no longer afraid what attention she drew, knowing she had to get out of the city. She didn't know what future they would find, but she knew that she couldn't let them take him from her. Leto belonged to her, was a part of her, and she wouldn't let him go.

She darted through the streets of Minrathous, oldest and most exalted city of the Tevinter Imperium. They were beautiful, old and deceitful; they spoke of the power of the Imperium. Whispered tales of a great and terrible kingdom echoed from the marble statues, the libraries, theatres and coliseums. Here was the seat of power, the centre and birth place of humanity in Thedas; the civilisation that had laid siege to The Golden City, the men who had challenged The Maker. But, as was well known, that challenge had been unsuccessful, and the Blight had brought the city low and the never ending war with the hated Qunari had kept it so.

The statues were old, and dirt filled the snaking cracks that covered them like veins. The theatres were damp and smelled of disuse and old hope. The Coliseums were still popular, but the great battles between heroic mages and wild beasts, between elves searching for freedom and evil, savage followers of the Qun had long since passed. Now quick, bloody and unfair fights between slaves kept the human population entertained and wine, not pride, kept them sedated and confident. The white stone city was tarnished, and this reality betrayed the frayed beauty of its architecture.

Humans and mages from the Free Marches and the newly independent Ferelden still besieged the capital, and the streets were filled with the sounds and smells of a busy and thriving city, although in truth its society had stagnated: the powerful remained powerful and the poor remained poor.

Yet despite this, year on year thousands poured through the city gates, looking for the glory and the pride that the city's history and reputation still promised. The humans came in search of their history and their greatness, and the mages hoping for a better future free of the prison-like Circle, but few found it. Although the power of the city may have gone, the power of the Magisters still remained and they were holding it fast.

The city itself was a skeleton of slaves arriving year by year on dirty boats or born to the service, muscle and bone was made up by the merchants, artisans and such that the city maintained; but the soul of the city was still the Magisters and their games of politics and power. The years rolled by, the winters freezing cold, the summers burning hot, Wintersun festivals and Feastday celebrations rolled together in a daze of self-aggrandisement and debauchery, power struggles, blood magic and slavery, all fuelled by the fading taste of power and the memories of greatness. This was the Tevinter Imperium and its capital city, Minrathous: beautiful, powerful, graceful - pale, weak and worn.

Aryion now pushed through these streets, the only ones she had ever known, in search of escape and of change for herself and her child. She saw the gates of the city and noted with dismay the two city guards lazing near the city exit. They were big, burly, bored men with muscles running to fat. She knew the type, and imagined she could already taste the stale smell of ale and meat on their breath, of bad digestion and pent up anger. Bullies and thugs, a small elf with a baby would be an easy target and yet she had to get past them. She knew she and Leto would not have the strength or the courage to trail back through the city to the eastern gate, and so mind racing she slowed her stead and walked as calmly as she could towards the gate.

The long pathway narrowed to a choke point, meaning that all who entered or exited the city needed to pass the guards. She drew closer and it seemed they were too deep in conversation to notice her. Unconsciously she pulled the blanket tighter around the child, who, already baking in the heat, cried aloud in protest. The noise, though only momentary, was made at just the moment she was passing the guard and was enough to make one of them, tall and square, look towards Aryion.

"Where are you going?" He barked, his full attention on the strange sight of an elf attempting to leave the city with a baby in her arms.

Dumbfounded, she began to mouth at the guard. She had no story, no idea what to say. She had never needed to be quick witted before. It had taken her months of pregnancy to even begin to think of freedom, and then it had only been the sight of Leto being taken from her that had hardened her resolve. Still she had taken six weeks to hatch the most basic plan to wait until another of her Master's parties, to use the bustle and business to cover her escape. She had thought of no excuse for leaving the city, she had not planned to bring water, food nor money. The fact was that Aryion had never had to think, had never had to concern herself with life beyond following instruction and she had no idea how to _live_.

This question was more than she could manage, the years of repression by her human Master stifling any free thought she might once have had, and the silence stretched out. The first guard was beginning to frown, and the second was moving towards them, his hand lightly but noticeably on the hilt of his sword. The first guard grabbed her arm, and spun around to face his comrade, pulling her with him. She thought, with the clarity of panic, how sensible she had been to tie Leto to her, rather than to rely of holding him.

"What have you got there?" asked the other guard, younger but with a cruel and hard faced, pinched and grey.

"Some elf. She's got a baby."

"Human?"

"Another knife-ear."

The young guard made a guttural sound, almost like a growl, deep from his throat. He looked Aryion up and down, grabbed her chin in his hand and turned her face left and right. He was assessing her. Her arms were at her sides and the baby was tied securely across her midriff, his head at her left breast. The guard pinched her cheeks, then her skinny arms and finally her free breast, painfully and without feeling. Aryion did nothing, her expression passive and her body unflinching, until he moved his clumsy, fleshy hand towards Leto and, ever so slightly, she stepped back.

The movement was so small and instinctual, and yet she knew instantly it was a mistake. A flash of anger shot across his face, and his mouth set in a small, wicked line. His eyes brightened and she already knew he would hit her. His hand swept across her face, and white lights flash across her eyes. Sickness filled her stomach as the adrenaline coursed through her system. She swayed slightly but kept her balance, which seemed to insult the guard, and his thick hand slammed back the way it had come, into her other cheek. She bit her tongue involuntarily and blood filled her mouth. Again she swayed but she kept her balance. The guard pulled his arm back, preparing to punch her. She focused on his fingers which were matted with thick dark hairs, a heavy silver ring in the shape of a dragon head on his fourth finger. _He's married_, she thought. His fist slammed into her face, and her right eye instantly closed up, a sharp blossom of pain telling her her eye had been blackened. Still she kept her balance, not out of spirit but because she was so terrified her body had frozen. A slow tear slid from her open eye, and she moved her left arm to her baby's head.

"Leave it be, Bay; there's not meat on her and you'll kill her with your next hit. You wanna explain that to your missus? _Again?_"

The guard, Bay, turned green, and a sickly look saturated his face. He turned to the other guard, "Karol?"

"Yeah", he smirked, "_Karol_."

Aryion stood stock still, her hand frozen in place. She prayed silently in her head to the Maker, to the Old Gods, to anyone who might listen. Bay was clearly shaken now, and backed away from her as if she had suddenly turned into an abomination. Away from her, he bristled and decided to show some guts to his companion. "Yeah, she's all bone. I'd snap her in half. Let's get on, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

And with that they walked back to the edge of the wall, and continued in conversation as if nothing has happened. Aryion stood for a second, blood filling her mouth and dripping down from a deep cut on her left cheek. She felt sick and dizzy, and for a second she felt she could just collapse there in the street. She was overcome with exhaustion and wanted to curl up and sleep, or better to die and never wake up. Leto moved; a small movement but enough. She shook herself out of it, turned on her heel and left the city of her birth, with her baby in her arms and only the clothes on her back.

o0o

Elwyni sighed. So far only the other slaves had noticed Aryion's absence and nothing had been said, but in less than an hour, she estimated, someone will have brought it to the Master's attention in the hopes that, by speaking up, they might curry favour. The house guards hadn't noticed and privately Elwyni bet that they never would. No, it would be another slave who betrayed Aryion's secret, and who brought the house guard, the city guard perhaps, chasing her down.

Elwyni was tired to her bones. She had been in service since she was ten years old and she was now much older, though exactly how much she couldn't guess. Her family, city elves in Starkhaven, had heard that elves in Tevinter had better chances, better prospects. Seeking to escape a life of dirt and starvation in the Alienage, they had packed herself and her younger sister up with their meagre belongings and begun the journey.

Her sister had died somewhere on the road and they had buried her under a tree. At the time it had seemed poetic, fitting that her life should nurture the plant, should bring new life into the world. Now it just seemed childish, and Elwyni could no more remember the type of tree it had been than she could its location or what had taken her sister. They had arrived and soon realised that though elves were free from starvation in the Imperium they still faced slavery. Oh yes, some might go on to become citizens, some might even become Magisters, if they Ability enough to be worthy of breeding in, but most came in chains from the slavers ships or, like Elwyni's parents, actually volunteered for slavery in return for regular meals and a roof.

And so her life had passed, and the prison of poverty in the alienage had melted easily in to the prison of slavery. She hadn't complained, and when her parents had become older and weaker she had understood why they had been sacrificed; why pay for something that has no use? She accepted the same would happen to her, and quite likely not too long into the future.

But she remembered the Alienage. She remembered the tall tree planted in its centre, covered with ribbons and markings she was too young to understand, and she remembered her friends and the community they had. They looked after each other, they knew each other. Marriages were celebrated and babies cherished, children cared for by a bustling group of busy, gossipy mothers while fathers and brothers served in bars, houses and merchants' stores. Life had been hard, and often they had had nothing to eat. The humans in the main city had barely looked at them, and often a pretty girl or boy would go missing, their body turning up days later battered and abused.

And yet, despite this, Elwyni had a sense of fondness for the life she could just remember, represented in a feeling more than anything else. When Aryion had fallen pregnant, Elwyni had for the early stages thought no more about it than with any other elf, until one night she had heard the gossip, that Aryion had named the baby inside her, that late into the night she talked to it, hunched over, whispering into her swollen belly. Something had stirred in Elwyni, the long forgotten sense of community, and she watched the younger elf as she progressed through her pregnancy. She knew the others didn't understand, and she would often listen sadly as they scorned the elf for naming a child she would probably never even see. Elwyni fancied now that she had known Aryion's plan long before she did, and when she had found her, terrified and dumbstruck and yet so, so brave Elwyni had simply turned and walked away.

She knew that if anyone had seen this, seen her turn her back on such an obvious lie, she would be executed. And now some slave, some so called brother or sister would soon tell the Master of her escape in the hope, the faint hope, that it might afford him or her a few days leniency, or maybe a year or two longer before death.

Elwyni walked slowly to her Master's door, his breakfast laid out on a silver tray. Each morning the same: cold meats, bread and wine and when in season perhaps some fruits. Now there was a red apple on his plate, slightly sharp as it was not yet Harvest and the fruit hadn't had time to sweeten. With it was a knife for the bread and the peel, sharpened on the kitchen whetstone. Gently she knocked on the door, and her Master's voice, clipped and cold, told her to enter. She held the tray in one hand, and slowly slid the knife into the other. She had no illusions of success. She wished only to cause a stir, to distract the others from Aryion's escape. She wondered if she would even reach the Magister before her death, but she was tired and she no longer cared.

o0o

Aryion had reached the tree line, high above the city. Her throat was dry and hurt her if she opened her mouth. She could feel the cracks in her lips and knew that they would be sore for days, even after she found a drink. Leto had stopped moving about forty minutes ago, but she was too tired and too frightened to shift the blanket and check on him. She wondered if he had died, and the thought that she had done so much and yet he was still dead made her want to laugh aloud. She was dizzy, swaying from side to side. Each movement sent a rush of blood to her head, and there was a pounding in her ears. She watched herself topple over slowly and was surprised that this thin, dusty dry little elf twisted at the last moment so she fell on her back, that baby facing upwards when it would surely have been crushed. Stupid girl, she thought, now the sun or the wolves will kill him as surely as you may have done. And then she thought nothing.

I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja


	6. Chapter 6

**9:19 Dragon**

**The Sheltered Lake, Asariel Forests**

Callum waited impatiently in the clearing where he had first met Leto a year ago. He had grown over the winter, his already thick-set body had hardened into a solid block of flesh, he was taller and his voice had deepened. He had kept his humour and his confidence. At seventeen, he was due to leave the next year for Minrathous and the tutelage of a Magister there. He was excited by this, and despite his by now well established self-confidence and arrogance was not wholly unaware of the honour being afforded to him and his family, or the fact that he would need to work hard over the next eighteen months to improve his Ability. What had surprised him however was how disappointed he felt that this would eventually mean an end to summers spent with the elven siblings Leto and Varania.

He had pursued the, for want of a better word, 'friendship' with vigour over the course of the last summer, and by the time the leaves had turned red and the elves had packed up to leave, he had felt certain he had established himself within their lives. Leto had at first been cool and reserved, though not unfriendly. He had needed chasing, but once Callum had him in his company the tall, dark-haired boy had been happy to while away the hours in conversation, seeming to be totally oblivious of his status or situation as an elf.

Callum was fascinated by this, and it hadn't taken him long to release that neither brother nor sister had any real understanding of the world outside their small community. Theirs was a closed in universe, full of lore and history that Callum never tired of hearing about. The stories of Elgar'nan, of the brothers who guide the dead, and the lost city of Elvhenan were received by the mage gratefully, and he revelled in this hidden world. It was his secret treasure, and both siblings belonged to him alone. The thrill of his verboten friendship with such low creatures, and the insights they had given him made him feel distinct from his human friends, and only served to add to his unshakeable sense of destiny.

It was a sad truth, however, that Callum's growing knowledge of elven culture did nothing to improve his treatment of the elves in his city, nor to shake the sense that Leto and Varania were in some sense wild animals he had tamed and made pets of. For Callum, although Leto and Varania were friends and confidants, a lifetime of prejudice and bias couldn't help shaping his attitudes and beliefs. Still, despite all this, he genuinely enjoyed Leto's company, and though he knew the elves was not his equal he did nothing to disabuse Leto or Varania of their naivety for fear of losing them.

At the thought of Varania, Callum's mind misted over. He had committed her features to his memory, and felt confident now that he could easily recognise her in a room crowded with her species, something he felt extremely proud of, as recognising individuals among slaves was an uncommon ability. Of course, he thought, Leto would also be easy to spot, with his dark hair, brown skin and height. But Varania? He red hair and pale skin were common among elves and yet they were his constant companions, he thought on her so frequently. The steep, straight ridge of her nose, a feature he found so distasteful in other elves, was on her a perfect representation on her pride and stubbornness.

Varania had been a challenge and a reward in one, and he had made great efforts to earn her trust. Although, in hindsight, Callum was aware that her interest him was curated more by curiosity and jealousy of her brother than any particular regard for himself. He hadn't been surprised when Leto had confessed to him that the close bond he had once felt with sister now seemed to be unrequited. Privately, Callum observed how difficult it must be to be kin to such a beautiful, haughty and distant man, and he could well understand why Varania may be growing to resent the inevitably attention her brother drew. However, despite her brothers concern, it was clear to Callum that Varania still loved him, no matter how grudgingly.

Callum felt himself sympathising with her situation and thought about her more and more, her pale skin and red hair, her pride and total, utter disregard for anything except her own immediate ambitions. She wasn't just unique for an elf, she was unique for a girl. For a woman, he corrected himself, a wave of excitement and nerves rolling through his body as he thought about her. She was fifteen now, and in all but a few telling habits and behaviours very much a young woman. He felt his stomach knot as he thought about the changes in her since the last spring, and he wondered idly if Leto knew of his feelings towards his sister.

Callum wasn't sure exactly what he wanted from the girl. The idea of a _romance_ with an elf was inconceivable, and he shuddered at the thought of the comments and snide remarks he would receive from his brothers and friends, Maker, from his _mother_. Yet the idea of leaving for Minrathous without her even now seemed inconceivable to him. He was toying with the idea of taking her with him, not as a partner of course but not as a slave either; perhaps in some kind of indentured position? He felt confident that once he explained to Leto the status and unique protection he would provide her his friend would be grateful to him for his condescension.

And, Void damn her, the sister fascinated him. Once the three of them were comfortable in each other's company, Varania had allowed Callum to see a side of her usually only shown to her brother. She was intensely passionate and wilful, funny and impatient for life and adventure.

As he waited for his friend, he planned ways that he could get Varania away from her brother. He could sense magic in her blood, and wondered if he could teach her to improve her natural Ability. He also thought he could educate her in the history, language and culture of his society, knowledge that would surely help her rise above her unfortunate lineage. He imagined her gratefully looking up to him, wonder and respect – and just a little fear – in her eyes as he taught her how to manifest the Fade into fireballs and freezing cones of ice, or as explained to her the heroic battles against the darkspawn or read to her from large books of philosophy and medicine. She would ever so gently touch his arm with her long, thin fingers, a rosy tint appearing on her soft white neck as she thanked him for showing such interest in her, for helping to learn the ways of the sophisticated elite.

Callum smiled at the thought of him accepting her thanks in the form of a shy kiss to his cheek, which he would expertly negotiate into a fuller, deeper embrace. He imagined her slender arms reaching up around his neck, into his hair, her thin, taught body pressed against his, her thighs opening just enough for him to press his own leg between them. She would be shy at first, of course, and no doubt in awe of him, grateful for the time he had taken to teach her. At this point, however, Callum's imagination failed him. He couldn't see Varania remaining so compliant, and at some point his fantasy would change, and she would be on top of him, aggressive and strong, shouting out his name for all of Thedas to hear.

Callum swallowed, and readjusted his robe. He probably only had two more summers with the elves, and if nothing else he fully intended to fulfil his fantasy. It never occurred to Callum, as he waited and daydreamed, that Varania might turn him down, or resent his largess.

Leto in fact had arrived a minute or two before, and was taking pride in his stealth and the fact he hadn't been noticed. As he watched his friend readjust the long, impractical dress he wore, he wondered what he was thinking about. For Leto the last year had been a series of adventures. He was now considered a man to his people, and at seventeen was already one of the most respected hunters in the tribe.

His life was good. He had status and strength, good health and good looks, and although he did nothing to consciously play on these attributes, they nevertheless offered him a standard of living within the camp unrivalled by any of his peers. Leto had in those short months since leaving Callum last autumn become used to his being a voice that was listened to, even if his opinions and suggestions were not always taken up by the Keeper. He had his choice of the men or women of the camp, and although he would at times indulge, he still had difficulty in maintaining relationships. The hunt remained his true passion, second only to the love and loyalty he held for his mother and sister.

He walked into the clearing, and smiled when his friend jumped when he said hello. "You have grown, my friend," he smiled, wrapping his arms around Callum in a bear hug.

"Ha yes! I'm taller than you now I think..? But you're tall still.. Why're you so tall? Your father must've been a Qunari!"

Leto laughed. As eleven society was matriarchal he didn't quite understand his friend's fascination with who his father was, but he indulged the conversation and they joked and chatted for some time about all the famous or fantastic men who could have been his father. Callum suggested pirates from some hot and distant country, the best way, he said, to explain his tannin coloured skin, or alternatively a great hunter from Rivain must be responsible for his black hair. From here the conversation moved on to what had happened during the winter and Callum's eventual move to Minrathous.

"Are you nervous?" Leto asked as they wandered their way through the forest towards a small lake where they intended to fish and swim.

"Somewhat. The mages, the Magisters, are by all accounts a ruthless bunch, and they treat their pupils no better than the knife…. I mean, not great," Callum caught himself, "but on the other hand, if I am successful I'll raise my family's status and my own beyond measure. I'll have a grand house, a hundred bedrooms and my own forest. You can come and live in the trees and I'll show you off to my important friends."

Leto laughed, and ask why he would be of any interest to Callum's friends.

"Ah, well, you know how people can be."

Leto realised he had no idea how people could be, but as Callum began asking him about his sister and his mother, he left the thought drop and soon it was forgotten.

o0o

The summer rolled by, the slow and heavy heat lengthening days and shortening nights. The two young men spent much of their time during those days hunting and fishing, Leto teaching Callum how to track and kill and Callum showing Leto, for he could not teach him, the new spells he had learnt to cast. They had found a small lake towards the western side of the forest the first summer they had become friends, and now they often thought of it as 'theirs'. At night they would either go back to their homes or sleep by the pool.

Leto was sat now on a high branch of a tree, near to the edge of the lake, watching Callum practice using magic to bounce stones on the water's surface. He felt lazy and relaxed, swinging his legs back and forth, stretching out his toes with each upward swing. Letting his thoughts drift, he was surprised when he felt Callum tug on his foot, snapping him back to the present.

"You weren't watching," Leto looked down at the scowling face of his friend below him.

"Oh? I apologise. I was thinking about something else."

Callum's scowl deepened and his cheeks flushed pink. "Yes, well, you should have been watching me," he snapped back, "I just managed to actually throw a stone across the water using my mind and _if_ you had been paying attention you would have seen it." His voice was low, and Leto realised his friend was genuinely angry with him. He couldn't understand why the other boy was so upset, and asked him.

"Because I instructed you to pay attention, and then when I turn my back there you are _day-dreaming_. It's not good enough – you should have been watching me like I told you too." Leto was stuck dumb. He jumped down from his branch, and attempted to apologise, reaching out to put his arm on the other's shoulder, which was immediately shrugged off.

"If you could do it once I am certain you can do it again. I fail to see why you are so upset."

"Yes, well, you would wouldn't you?"

Leto sighed and sat down on the sandy earth. He didn't know what to say, or even why his friend was behaving in such a stubborn and childish manner. He had begun to notice that he and Callum saw the world in two very distinct ways. Leto was patient, the virtue of the hunter, but Callum had a quick temper and a tendency to view himself as in some way above those around him. Not understanding that this self-centred perspective was in actuality the only way Callum knew how to view the world, Leto only noticed more and more that Callum was sharp, and that he seemed to hold people in disdain. For the elf, even though he found forming friendships difficult, and was used to being slightly bored by others, this attitude was unattractive.

Leto rubbed his hand over his scalp, bristling his short hair in frustration. "I do not know what to say to you. I have apologised. I am unclear exactly why you feel you can order me to do _any_thing, but even so I am sorry if I have offended you. There is nothing more I can say; nothing more I will say."

Callum regarded the elf sitting straight backed and long limbed on the earth. He knew that Leto didn't understand the hierarchy between them, and it was something that, in general, thrilled him. But he supposed he had to take the rough with the smooth, and he appreciated at least that Leto had recognised enough of his position to apologise. He decided to be magnanimous, and to forgive the oversight. Sitting down beside him, he wrapped his arm around Leto's shoulder and, sighing heavily, accepted his apology.

There was something in his friend, Leto considered, which he was noticing more and more, something that ever so slightly made his skin itch. Leto realised with a sense of real sadness, as he went back to watching Callum practice his magic, that he would be pleased to leave Tevinter this summer, even if he did get sick. He hoped that next year Callum would be too occupied learning his trade to come out to the woods to see Leto and his sister.

The young elf frowned at the thought of his sister. Varania, for the most part, had been too busy so far this summer with her female friends and their gossipy secrets to spend time with them, a fact which Leto was extremely relieved about. He knew his sister had a crush on the human. He had seen her stealing glances at him all last summer, and blushing angrily whenever he had spoken to her. During their winter travels, whenever they had been alone, she had steered the conversation to their secret human friend. In fact, Leto had half expected her to act on it this summer, whereas instead she seemed to be going out of her way to avoid them.

_Or to avoid me?_, Leto thought. Once close, he now felt like his sister was constantly angry with him, and he was mystified as to what he could be doing to deserve such ire. He left her to herself, because she had said he embarrassed her, and then she complained because he didn't invite her along with him. He supposed that he was currently out of favour because he had been trying to dissuade her from perusing Callum romantically. He had, subtly he hoped, tried to deter her from any serious engagement with the boy, and it seemed – if her avoidance of them was any indication – that she at least had listened to him.

Leto smiled and clapped as Callum froze a patch of water near the shore, and again thought how complicated relationships were.

o 0 o

Varania in fact was bored. Her so-called girlfriends, she realised, where more interested in her brother than in her. Fed up with answering inane questions about his favourite food, or colour, or Maker knew what, she had finally snapped and told the group of girls that 'Lush Leto' was in fact incapable of having kind of relationship due to an unfortunate and extremely localised birth defect. Her happiness however at the gasps of shock and looks of anguish on her friends faces was short lived, as the next barrage of questions inevitably were requests for more details about this deformity, details which Varania realised she had no idea how to– or wish to– discuss. And so she left the group to walk in the woods, though without retracting her statement. She smiled to herself, pleased that she might have at least brought her brother down a peg or two.

She _really_ hated her brother right now. She knew that her brother would be extremely angry with her when he found out about the rumour she had begun, and was wearily anticipating the telling off she would receive from him. She smiled however, and figured it was worth being shouted at just to see his stupid, calm, I-know-best veneer slip.

He was so stuck up, and always telling her what to do. Just because he thought he was in charge, just because everyone wilted at his stupid voice and good looks. And did he care? Did he appreciate how much people swooned over him, fell over themselves to do what he wanted_? No, of course not._ All he cared about was running around in the woods like some kind of wild animal. _Why can't anyone else see how weird that is_? Varania couldn't understand at all why no one else commented on the fact that he was happier killing things than making conversation?

And then there was the _human._ Now that was a weird. Varania had spent most of the last summer in the company of the two boys, back before Leto became so bossy and stuck up, and had been amazed at how easily her stuffy, tight lipped older brother had opened up to this human. Varania had always felt that she was the only one who Leto could really be himself with, and she had watched his budding friendship with the outsider with a knot of jealousy in her heart that only served to make her more dissatisfied and self-pitying.

And yet at the same time, she had felt herself also drawn to Callum, and had spent most of that summer watching him from the corner of her eyes, noticing with nervous excitement how heavy and big he was compared to her friends and family. She found herself falling under his spell almost as much as her brother had done. He was different from what she knew, so exotic and strange and, she admitted, so taboo that the idea of the trouble they would get into if anyone knew about him added to her excitement and her shame.

She wasn't sure what to make of this conflict, and found herself feeling increasing confused and, with no one to talk too, unexpectedly isolated.

And that was another thing, she thought to herself and she stamped her way through the forest, lost in her own anger and self-pity, how dare he try to tell me who I can or can't like? He thought he was so smart, dropping all those little comments into his discussions – all his _lectures_ – with her. "You need to spend time with your friends"; "you should see more of Ehlohn, he is a good man"; "Callum is a good friend to me, but he is also arrogant and can be unkind" – _oh yes, brother, he is arrogant and unkind? Really? Well it takes one to know one. And anyway, I can decide for myself what I think about people and even if you are so Blighted perfect, perhaps I don't like that and-_

"What are you talking about?!"

Varania spun round. She hadn't even realised she had been speaking aloud, and now, _of course_, Callum was stood in front of her, his happy, open face split in two by the enormous grin he was wearing. Her cheeks burning, Varania scowled at him and shrugged her shoulders angrily.

"My brother."

"Your brother, huh? Well, that's funny because I was just thinking about the very same person."

Varania humphed noncommittally, but she lift her chin and looked him in the eye. "Why?"

"Mmm. This and that. I was on my way to meet him. You want to tag along? I haven't seen much of you this summer."

Varania eyed him warily. She didn't want to see Leto, but on the other hand she did want to spend time with Callum, something she hadn't felt able to do with her stupid brother policing her every move. But she wasn't the type of person to twirl her hair in her fingers or bite her lip when she was nervous or uncertain. Instead she stuck out her chin and shrugged her shoulders again.

"Well, I'll take that as a yes, shall I?", and he held out his hand to her. Varania paused for only a second, but Callum noticed and smiled at her again. "You know, there's something I've been meaning to show you. No, no, don't frown at me – it's a trick, and I'm certain you'll like it. Sit down, I'll show you and then we can go find Leto. Sound ok?" Varania nodded and sat down on the damp earth. Callum sat next to her, not touching her but so close she could feel the heat of his body. He was so warm, she wondered if all humans were or if he was in some way different from the rest of his species. He rummaged around the base of the tree they were sat beneath.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, her curiosity piqued and her earlier embarrassment forgotten.

"This," he said, showing her a short, thick stick, about the width of her wrist and the length of her hand. She couldn't for the life of her understand exactly what it was he was going to do, and she felt a thrill run through her body as she realised that they were about to share a secret – a secret that he wanted to share with her, not her brother.

He stood up and placed the stick about a metre away from them, before coming back to sit next her. Varania noticed he sat a little closer to her than he had before, and she adjusted her own position slightly so that she was angled towards him. She saw him smile again when she moved, but he didn't comment on it. He instead stared intently at the stick, and Varania felt the texture in the air change. A blue light hummed over him, and he raised his hands and began to move them slowly in a complex pattern.

It seemed to her as she watched his hands that they were pushing against some invisible resistance, as if he had to force them to move. She was watching his hands so intently that it took her a moment to realise she could smell burning. She looked over to where he had placed the stick, and realised that it was on fire. Varania was not by nature a nervous person, and where some might have gasped or jumped in shock, she simply leaned forward, fascinated.

The ground around the stick was not burning, and the flames that licked at the wood had an unusual white tinge, as if they must have been extremely hot, and yet no heat was coming off the wood. The manipulation of Ability was impressive, and she knew it must take a lot of concentration for Callum to keep the fire so localised. The flames danced for a few minutes more, and all the while Callum was twisting and turning his hands in ever more detailed and minute movements. And then, suddenly, the flames went out and his hands dropped.

He stood and walked over to the spot where the stick had been, and reached down to pick up the blackened, charred shape that was now resting on the ground. Just as his hand reach out Varania jumped up and tackled him, knocking him to the floor.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You'll burn your hand off – didn't you see how hot that was?" She shouted at him as they landed messily on the floor. Callum hadn't been expecting her to jump him like that, or he wouldn't have so easily been knocked down. He was much heavier and stronger than she was, and he put his hands on her waist and lifted her off easily, laughing. "I'm glad you care. But it's ok, it's not hot, look" and he went over and picked up the charred wooden stick.

Varania, furious and embarrassed, leapt to her feet. "Well, I don't see how I was supposed to know that. If something's burning it's hot. Will you stop laughing at me? It's not funny-"

And suddenly Callum was kissing her. She wasn't sure how it had happened, or how he had reached her so quickly, but it was happening and she was amazed how right it felt. He was much taller than her, and had to stoop to reach her mouth. He lips were pressed firmly to her own, and she could feel his warm skin against her where their cheeks touched. She tried to stand on her tip-toes to make it easier for him to kiss her, but when she shifted position he simply lifted her up and held her against him.

She gasped in surprise and suddenly felt his tongue in her mouth, slowly dancing around her own. She felt her stomach knot, and kissed him back eagerly, her heart beating and her head spinning and he held her tighter against him. Unable to stop herself, amazed at her own behaviour, she wrapped her legs around his waist to better secure herself to him, and slid her hands up into his hair. She was rewarded for her boldness. He sighed into her mouth and, encouraged, she began to run her fingers through his hair. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he pulled his mouth away from hers and put her back on the ground.

Callum looked down at the elf. He couldn't believe what had just happened. He hadn't planned to kiss her, though Maker knew he didn't regret it. She had looked so angry and embarrassed as she shouted him, and before he could realise what he wanted to do, he had her in his arms and was doing it. The skin around her mouth was a little red, he guessed from his stubble. She opened her eyes and looked straight at him. He loved the way she always made eye contact, the way she tilted her chin up when she was angry, the way she instinctively felt she was equal to him.

Her arms will still around his neck, and the difference in their heights meant that she forced her to push her body up against him in order to drop kisses along his jaw. He felt his cock jump against her midriff, and he knew from the look that darted across her face that she had felt it too. Not used to asking for what he wanted, Callum pulled them both onto the earth and began kissing her again, running his hands over her flat belly and small breasts. He was delighted when she kissed him back eagerly, and arched her back under his roaming touch.

For a moment Callum tried to question his actions, to control himself. But he had wanted her so badly, and for so long. The sight of her lain on the ground, her deep red hair tangled and clouding around her face, her breast rising and falling as she gasped under his touch… how could he let her go now? When he felt her small hands running across his chest, her thin fingers dipping underneath the buttoned up chest of his robe to stroke and tug at the hair on his chest, he knew he could no more halt his actions that a river could cease flowing towards to sea.

Lifting her up with one hand, he grabbed the waist of her thick leggings and pulled them down, before burying his head in her taught, pale stomach. He felt her shudder as he kissed and licked the sensitive skin of her belly and the tops of her thighs. He wanted to make love to her, to show her how different she was from the other slaves. More than anything, he needed her. He took her hips in his hands and pushing her up towards him, he began to slowly circle his tongue around her, relishing the groans and sighs that drifted down to his ears as he tasted her.

It occurred to him suddenly what he was doing, and who with. But as he felt her hips slowly begin to buck against his face, any shame he felt vanished. Moving his hand, began to slowly run his palm over the curve of her ass, before plunging one finger deep inside her. He heard her gasp in shock, but she didn't stop bucking against him.

He began to run his tongue harder against her, and slowing to pull his finger in and out of her, keep rhythm to her own frantic movements. She was breathing heavily now, a constant stream of low keening sounds escaping from her. He added another finger and was rewarded a few moments later by her body suddenly arching up against him, shuddering and then falling back to the ground.

Varania lay there for a second, gasping for breath. Her whole body ached, and she could feel her heart pumping in her chest. She had never experienced anything like what had just happened, and yet she knew that she wanted more. Her mind was still in a thousand pieces, but her hands took control and she began to claw at Callum's robe, pulling it up above his hips.

Unlike her, he was wearing some kind of binding under his clothes, and she growled in frustration as she tried to pull it away. Callum helped her and for a moment their fingers and hands were tangled up the in the white cloth, and Varania felt her impatience and need growing until, suddenly, the material feel away and she could feel his hardness in her hands. She felt a moment of panic, but her usual stubbornness overcame any anxiety and she whispered in his ear, encouraging him.

She bared her teeth slightly and he asked her if she was ok. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to tell lie, and so she did. After a few tentative thrusts she began to relax, and Callum's confidence grew. He began a slow beat, pushing into her in long, controlled thrusts. It wasn't long before she was pushing against him herself, whispering in his ear, begging him to go deeper, to fill her. Callum tried to keep calm, tried to maintain control, but he wanted her so badly he found himself heeding her requests, speeding up and thrusting into her more violently until suddenly he shuddered and came inside her.

They lay on the earth for a while, each breathing heavily. After a few moments Callum rolled onto his side, resting his head on his elbow to look at her.

"Ok?"

Varania smiled, "Ok."

"We should probably get up. Your brother's waiting for me."

At the mention of her brother, Varania frowned and her face clouded over again. _Why did he have to mention Leto? Why did everything always come back to her brother?_ Just as these thoughts were running through her mind, Callum reached out and placed his hand along her cheek, gently stroking her face with his thumb.

"Don't worry, it's you I'd rather see. But I don't think Leto would like that, do you? I think I should go meet him now, or else he might try to come and find me.. Can you imagine if he found us? Like this?"

Varania giggled.

"Exactly. Look, lets meet up again tomorrow? We can meet here again, if you like?"

Varania nodded, and felt that she would like that very much. Never one to show weakness however, she simply said that it would be fine with her to meet here again. Callum smiled and leant forward and kissed her again, before standing and winding his small clothes around himself again. Once he was happy, he straightened up his rode and brushed the bits of earth and leaves from it. Varian had also sat up and put her leggings back on again, but she hadn't stood. Callum smiled at her.

"Don't tell anyone about this, ok?" he said, and, without waiting for an answer, he left. Varania stayed sitting for a while longer, before she got to her feet and walked back to camp.

Over the next few months Callum and Varania met up three of four times a week, always away from the clan and her brother. Varania loved these moments, and relished the fact that she now had something her brother did not. She understood that Callum probably felt more for her than she did for him, but that didn't stop her from encouraging his attention.


	7. Chapter 7

**9:20 Dragon **

**Egidius' Manor, Minrathous**

Egidius swore loudly, grinding his fists into the top of his desk. It was an expensive piece of furniture, with a leather writing cover and small birds carved into its edges, but Egidius could afford such things and as ice began to crackle out from his knuckles and the wood began to creak and split, he only pushed his liver-spotted fists harder into its surface until, with a sound like snapping bones, the desk shattered into a hundred tiny, frozen fragments. The Magister flexed his fingers, his knuckles stiff and painful.

"Leave."

A dark robed figure which had until that point been kowtowed on the floor spun quickly and scurried out of the room, not bothering to waste time trying to rise to its feet before beginning to flee. The important thing was to get away, fast.

Egidius caught the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and sat down heavily on his chair, his body exhausted from the mana he had just spent. He sighed heavily, his mood dark. There was a small sound behind him like a cough, designed to bring the Magister back into the present. A slim, hood figured drifted gently to Egidius' side, and stood waiting for the man to speak again.

"How is it possible that he keeps besting me?"

The hood was silent, but a slight tilt of the head showed that it was listening.

"Maker's Grace, that damnable man. A thousand knives wouldn't so much as graze his ass! That was a Crow. 'The Best Assassins In All The Known World'. So much for the 'best'," he spat.

The hooded figure moved a little closer to kneel by the side of the Magister, and began to gently push it's head up and along Egidius' arm, rubbing against him in the manner of a cat. With his free arm Egidius reached over pulled the hood back, ruffling the hair of the woman underneath. With a sigh she rested her head against his arm.

"You are better than him, it is only a matter of time. You will succeed, I have no doubt," the figure spoke in a quietly and gently, but there was a hardness in her voice that spoke of determination and held no mercy.

"Yes, yes of course. I've no doubt I will, and when I do I will take his mantle and you may have mine."

The woman sighed, and Egidius noticed how her chocolate brown hair fanned out over his arm. He knew he was too old to be attempting a power struggle, especially with a Magister of such power and resilience as Danarius. And yet… a few years ago, this young, beautiful and ruthless woman had entered his house, and all her ambition and fever had brought him back to life. She had awakened in him the passion and fire of his youth, and he longed to please her. He hadn't realised, until her arrival, how dull and quiet his life had become.

He had spent less than a day with her before he had seen his future, an old and broken man rotting slowly in his marbled palace. Once, he had been envied and respected. He had been feared.

And yet.. somewhere.. he had lost his influence. He had retreated back into his house, to his experiments and research, and the city had forgotten him. And then suddenly a young woman had knocked at his door, and asked to be apprenticed to him. The breach of etiquette, if he had still been part of that world, would have been insurmountable. Instead, he had offered her a seat, and had asked her what she wanted. When she had explained her desire to him, and he knew she was speaking frankly and with honesty, he had felt something he had forgotten existed in himself, and had accepted her as his protégée. He had known on that first day what she was, but she didn't frighten him, as he assumed she had any other Magister she had approached. No, he found her enthralling, and he was not afraid of what he knew, one day, she would do to him. He was old, and, having faced a lonely and forgettable death, he was now energised by the uncertainty she had given him. He loved her exactly for what she was.

Egidius was no fool, he wouldn't have reached the age he had if he were, and he knew that his love was unrequited. He knew he was being used for his status, such as it was. He had taught her all he knew, and she had learnt that and more in the few short years she had been apprenticed to him. Her goal was insanity itself, but if anyone could achieve such a thing, he felt she could. Her Ability was almost unprecedented. She had arrived on his doorstep already proficient in the arcane school, and had demonstrated to him her ability to crush the life out of a slave from several meters away. She was quick to learn, and under his guidance had mastered the elemental forces of fire, ice and electricity in addition to spirit magic. She pushed herself hard, and often practised late in to the night. The muted screams of his slaves could often be heard well into the early hours of the morning.

Her blood magic was now all but perfected. She would soon be a formidable blood mage, and he wondered if anyone would ever hold her back. The one barrier to most mages success was demonic possession, but demons held no sway over her. She had told him once that when she slept she was very rarely approached, even though her Ability was so strong and her practice of blood magic now so frequent.

Egidius had wondered about that. His apprentice should, by rights, have spent every night of her life refusing the cajoling influences of demons desperately offering her her deepest desires in return for a portion of her soul. The only answer he could think of to explain the lack of demonic interested in her was so inconceivable he had, for some time, ignored it. Yet, the more he learnt of her, the more he suspected, no matter how ridiculous it may be, that his suspicion was correct.

The demons did not trouble her for her soul and Egidius knew why.

He watched his fingers run through her hair. His nails, he noticed, were yellow and cracked, and he wondered how much longer he could keep up with her. He was getting her an apprentice of her own, some big fish from a small pond, and yet another sop to her vanity. He felt a little relieved though that someone else could perhaps entertain her and help her in her intrigues and plots. By rights if not by law no mage should apprentice another, only a Magister, but, his own ailing body aside, Egidius enjoyed her cruelty and her cold contentment, and knew that by providing her with an apprentice she would be able to bask in her own glory for many months, and perhaps some of his own slaves might live to see out the year. He would hopefully be able to hold on to her for a while longer, as he would happily be her cover and her alibi if the courts became involved, which was in itself unlikely.

The war on Danarius was another indulgence. Murder and intrigue between Magisters was if anything common, and he could well understand why his apprentice had set her sights on such a man, but Egidius himself had no interest in furthering his own cause. Everything was for her. If Egidius could bring about Danarius' death, then all his holdings and estates would become Edigidius' own; more importantly, Egidius would gain Danarius' title, leaving his own open for his apprentice to take. It was a simple task, in many ways, and he was, he realised, touched that she simply did not kill him herself. He had no idea why she did not. Perhaps, after all, she was fond of him, at least as much as she would be capable of such an emotion. He stroked her head again.

"You know that I love you, don't you, Hadriana?"

The young woman smiled against his arm, "Yes, I know."

oOo

A few days after the assassin had run from Egidius' study, Hadriana went to the market to meet her new apprentice. Not prone to excitement, she nevertheless felt thrilled at the prospect of lifting her status by having her own personal student. She idled away her journey, bouncing from side to side in her golden litter, a gift from Egidius, thinking of the things she could make her apprentice do for her.

In some people there is a moment when the darkness takes over, and they lose control. They lash out at an abusive husband or wife or insubordinate slave, and what was meant to be a slap becomes a beating or a murder. Whatever voice that normally keeps their anger and frustration in check is silenced and the darkness takes over. Most of the time, when the city guard arrives at the scene, if they even bother to show up, they find a dazed man or woman standing above the bloody pulp of the victim, staring at their fists in horror. These criminals are usually sent to the city jail, and the incident is covered up or even accepted by the local community. _"He had it coming", "Well, she wouldn't listen", "The creature was unbiddable"_. Society makes allowances for these losses of control and for the rising darkness because, without allowances, most citizens would be jailed for life.

Hadriana was not most people. Her darkness never rose unbidden at uncontrolled moments. No, Hadriana was never out of control, and her darkness was never hidden from her. She embraced it, sheltered it and nurtured it, until there was no clear definition between the darkness and herself. Hadriana was always calm, was always in control, even when a finger broke too easily or a heart gave out too quickly. She would simply sigh and collect another specimen. There were enough around, after all, and she had Egidius' money to buy more.

Today, though, was a red letter day, and even the calm young Apprentice Magister felt the excitement of it. _Today I will get my very own apprentice_. An apprentice! Such status, such power! A rare smile was ghosting across her lips, and although she tried to settle her expression she found she could not.

With an apprentice her path was set, no one could fail to recognise her ambition and her Ability. And Hadriana had a lot of Ability; she was a gifted mage. She of course practiced blood magic, though never using her own 'supply'. The demons that were attracted by blood magic had long ago realised that Hadriana's mind, like all successful Magisters, was as penetrable as an iron ball. This was the secret of success in the Imperium: to be such a mind as even a demon would not want, to leave you free to practice blood magic with impunity. As a result of her own hard and silent soul, she had lived the majority of her adult life with only her own twisted psyche as company. Certainly her fellow mages and peers had long ago realised that she was a snake who would strike at any one of them if she felt she could, and as such all had made a definite effort to remove themselves from her influence.

It had been design not luck that had led her to Egidius' favour. She had outgrown her own sphere of influence by the time she was fourteen, and had set her sights on a higher title, that of Magister. For most mages , especially those without a House, the pathway to being accepted as an apprentice was long and drawn out, a series of trials and tests against competitors and themselves. For Hadriana, she had simply studied the ranks of the current Magisters and settled on the one she felt she could most easy manipulate, and had isolated and secured him as easily as buying a new robe. The idiot man had fallen at the first touch of his bony hand on her white thigh, and from there she had found his dominion a simple task.

Now twenty, she held all the power in the House of Egidius, and had begun a year ago to cast around for greater triumphs. She had no love and little respect for her master; he was a stepping stone towards her true goal: Danarius.

Whenever she thought about the Magister Danarius her skin prickled. She could sense in him darkness equal to her own, and knew that, when they finally met face to face, he would recognise her power, strength and determination for what it was. _He_ would not shrink away from her, _he_ would not display the decrepit weakness and limitation of the other mages and Magister she had been forced to deal with thus far. Danarius would see himself in her, and nurture her and advise her and guide her. She longed for him. And so she had settled on a plan to bring Danarius to her.

She would draw his attention first to the house of Egidius, and from there contrive a display of her own power. Attaining an apprentice, an unexpected boon from her old man, would help to focus the gossip of the Imperium on her, adding to her reputation. Although Danarius was famous for his lofty attitude towards the other Magisters, she felt sure that the knowledge of a twenty year old apprentice with her own apprentice would pique his interest.

She felt herself come to a stop, and the slaves try to lower her to ground as gently as possible. The sedan touched the earth with barely a bump. She stepped out onto the crowded street, assessing the hustle and bustle that instantly developed around her. She sighted the meeting placed she had agreed with the mage, and walked purposefully towards it. The crowd jostled around her as she moved through it, but she didn't mind. Normally such disrespectful shouting and hollering around her would have her seething for hours, her indignation only being dispelled with the practice of a new spell, once she had found a suitable blood supply from the slaves at home. Now however she was too excited to even notice the insolent manner in which the riff raff pushed and pulled around her in their pointless activities. Walking towards the meeting post, she spotted a young man, about her age, who looked like the person she was due to meet. He had an open face and seemed, to her expert eye, gullible and naive. He look lost, and she smiled as she watched him turning his head this way and that, clearly bewildered by the noisy pandemonium of the market place.

She briefly dipped into his memories, and confirmed him as the man she was due to meet. She watched for a moment, enjoying his confusion and panic, before finally walking up to him. "You must be my new apprentice. Yes, yes, I am a little young I know," she answered his shocked expression, "but never the less, I am she. Follow." And with that she turned on her heel and began to walk back to the litter.

Callum stared after her for a second, before turning to his slave and instructing her to pick up his sacked belongings. He trailed after Hadriana, fighting against the thrusting crowds that separated them. _All this noise, all these people._ Callum felt panicked and unsure of himself. This Magister was barely older than him, and the journey had been long and sleepless. He missed his family, and this city was too busy, too crowded, too organic. It smelled of a hundred thousand people living their lives in public and on the street, which was in fact very close to the reality of Minrathous.

Callum was frightened and felt exceedingly lonely. He reached the litter, after having pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd, something he had noticed the woman who had met had not needed to do. The crowd, for her, just seemed to part. Once at the litter, she beckoned him inside. Callum placed his foot on the step, and only then looked behind him to check the whereabouts of his belongings and his slave. Luckily, both were only a few steps behind him.

"The slave may follow behind; we will only be travelling at walking pace. Perhaps you wish to bring you belongings on board however? If we lose the elf, she is easily replaced…?"

Hadriana's question hung in the air, and Callum looked again at the girl.

"No, thank you, sirrah. I would rather not lose the slave, she was.. expensive."

Hadriana sighed, already bored by this stupid country mage and is views. "Fine. Well, you better hope she can keep up. Whatever your _feelings_ on the matter, I still suggest your 'luggage'," she cast her eyes over the linen sack the girl had slung over her shoulder, "is kept within the carriage. See to it, girl."

Callum's slave placed the sack in the litter, and with that the small carriage was lifted up and carried away. Varania, unsure what now was required of her, began to jog after her master as he was transported to his new life.


	8. Chapter 8

**9.20 Dragon Age**

**The Asariel Forests, Asariel City, Tevinter**

Another winter rolled by, and with the return of the spring came the eleven camp. The boys resumed their friendship without too much awkwardness after not communicating for almost six months. Varania however kept her distance, only occasionally joining them, claiming she had her responsibilities to the clan and her own group of friends. Callum, who had his own plans for her this summer, continuously asked why Leto was allowed so much free time, when Varania was not, but only received half answers in response: Varania had a 'special commitment'.

Suspicious and unused to being denied, Callum had continued asking after her most days and was annoyed and frustrated that Leto would not simply tell him where his sister was and what she was doing. Callum couldn't imagine that Varania herself was choosing to not spend time with him, and felt that, somehow, Leto must be forcing her to remain distant.

Callum was painfully aware that this was his last chance to extract the girl before leaving for Minrathous. His obsession with Varania had deepened during the winter, and now she occupied most of his conscious thoughts and all of his sleeping ones. After a number of weeks of being stonewalled, Callum asked Leto again if she would be joining them as they walked through the woods.

"I do not know," he replied simply, as he had a hundred times before.

Callum finally lost his temper. "What d'you mean 'you don't know'? How can you not know! How dare you not answer my question?", and before he knew what he had done, a fireball exploded into Leto's back, knocking him face first into the ground.

Leto quickly rolled over on the earth and the flames were extinguished before anything more than his tunic was damaged. Leto, from his position on his back, rolled his knees over his head for momentum before kicking his legs out and landing firmly on his feet, legs crouched and ready to jump. Before either boy really knew what was happening, Leto had leapt the short distance that separated him from Callum and knocked the human to the ground, straddling the mage, his knife out, the blade pressed against Callum's neck.

All this had happened in less than half a minute, and both boys were shocked at the position they found themselves him. Leto stared down into Callum's brown eyes and saw that his friend was afraid. He jumped back quickly, releasing the mage, and, unsure how to proceed, stood awkwardly inspecting the soles of his bare feet while Callum struggled to his own. Both men looked at each other, trying to find the right thing to say. Callum spat at the ground at Leto's feet, and turned and walked away.

o0o

Days past without either boy seeking out the other.

Leto was tracking a wild nug, a small, fierce boar like creature. If he could bring it down then there would be food and leather for the tribe. The summer was drawing to a close, the days growing shorter and the nights longer, and provision were needed for the journey out of Tevinter.

He had been following the animal for a little under a day, but was unsure if it was female. If it was, he wanted to make sure it had no young before he killed it, so he was tracking it, waiting for it to lead him to its den. His entire being was focused on the tiny hoof marks the animal left in the leafy undergrowth. His great-sword was at his back, but otherwise he had no other protection. He disliked armour, it was heavy and weighed him down, and he had little use for it his life with the tribe. He wore only a tunic dyed brown and leggings, his feet bare and his black hair still shaved short to his head. He crouched among the leaves, the heady scent of rotting plant not quite masking the smell of nug.

The world was calm, and Leto felt free. He waited, knowing that the animal was close. His every instinct told him that this was a female; she was sticking to the same areas, a sure sign she had a farrow of nuglets that needed feeding and attention and she was – from what he had seen – slightly underweight, which was unnecessary given the time of year and the abundance of plants to be eaten. Leto sat on his haunches, perfectly still and calm. He knew the power of centring himself, of slowing his breathing and his heart rate down. These things helped him to blend into his surroundings, become unseen and non-threatening. He also knew the power of letting his mind unwind, of letting his consciousness wind out so his instinct could take over. Leto trusted himself completely, and he knew the animal was close by, and that she was not aware of him. All he needed was for her to go back to her den, and then he could confirm whether she was a justified kill or not.

Suddenly, from above his head, the sky erupted. Leto jumped to his feet, but had no idea what was happening. The birds and animals in the trees were shrieking as lightening danced across every surface around him, striking him. Leto, realised that the electricity that surrounded him was not strong enough to endanger him… every time a bolt landed on him it sent a shiver along his skin and caused the fine hairs on his arms to stand on end. However it surely must have frightened his target and so he ran forward to where he though the animal had been. As he drew closer to the nug's den the lightening was stronger, fierce blue and white threads of light jumping and flashing in a dense thicket. After a few minutes scouring the earth the lightning died away, and Leto saw the carcass of the nug and it's farrow, charred and burned by the lighting.

With electricity still sputtering out around him, Leto walked slowly towards the cooling meat that had been the nug. With his bare foot his rolled the animal on its side and noted the engorged nipples running down her underbelly. Leto looked up at the sky, and retraced his steps. He had a good idea where the sudden blitz had come from, and was unsurprised when Callum came running up to him through the trees.

"Did you see that? How fucking amazing was that? What was it like? How did it feel? Oh don't worry, I knew it wouldn't hurt you – I'm not focused enough yet to manifest enough energy to be any threat to you. What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that? Is this about the other day? Who cares! C'mon, let's go fishing."

o0o

They reached the pool, and sat by the edge of the water. It was their habit to while away their days together here, sometimes chatting all day on the banks, sometimes swimming or fishing. Today they settled on the edge of the water, and Leto let the shallow waves lap at his bare feet. He flexed his toes and sighed, stretching his arms above his head.

He was so graceful; Callum wondered vaguely what his family would make of him if he did bring him home to wait on them. The status he would be afford by such a unique object interested him, and he idled his imagination thinking of the reactions of his mother and friends if he brought his elf home.

The remainder of the day passed slowly, afternoon gently falling into evening without incident. Leto hadn't mentioned the nug to Callum, and instead had decided to try to enjoy the freedom that their friendship used to give him. Callum was in an exceptionally good mood, amiably chatting and without the edge that had coloured so many of their recent meetings. Leto wanted to make the best of this burst of jollity, and built a small fire. They cooked some fish from the lake. After eating they sat by the fire, and the conversation returned to Minrathous.

"What do you know of the city?" Leto asked, rubbing his hands over his shaven head, a habit he had when he was feeling wary or nervous. The water from the lake stuck to his hair, making look not unlike a hedgehog. Callum paused, unsure how to answer this question without giving away information which he had so far kept from the elf.

"It's…. big, and old. It's the most important city in Thedas, and has a long and powerful history. To be honest I hear it's a bit seedy, but the Magisters, at least the important and powerful ones, all live there. It's the place to be if I am to fulfil my place in the world."

"And what is your place in the world?" Leto asked, bemused.

Callum took a deep breath before answering, "My place is to be powerful, Leto."

Callum had expected an awed reverence from the elf, a hushed silence and a look of respect in his murky green eyes. Instead the elf laughed, his deep voice carrying across the water. Callum looked at him, ready to strike him for such impertinence, but at the sight of his friend, usually so cool and still, rocking back and forth, long legs held up to his chest with his brown arms wrapped around them, tears of laughter pouring down his face and Callum's indignation was lost. He could afford to be generous and forgiving, as he had information that he knew would no doubt upset the elf, so why not let him enjoy his stupid, ignorant laughter? Callum even laughed along with him.

o0o

The sun had set, and despite the heat of the day there was a chill in the air. Surprisingly and, Callum thought, happily, Varania had joined them, and they sat by the fire together. Callum's heart jumped wildly as he lay on his side, facing Varania across the fire. Half closing his eyes against the heat from the flames, he listened to her chastise her brother for some domestic nonsense. Her voice was softer now than in the past, but she still retained the passion of before. She swore at her brother, and he answered her curtly, not being drawn into the argument she clearly wanted to have with him.

Callum could not understand her need to argue with everyone about everything, but he reasoned the angrier she was the more opportunity he had to listen to the lilt of her voice. He also wondered if she was deliberately trying to antagonise her brother in order to make it easier later to break the bad news to him. Callum smiled to himself, thinking about the meeting he had managed to snatch with her a few days before. His thoughts were interrupted by her shouting at Leto:

"You think that you can behave however you wish, but you cant. Just because you can kill a few animals, suddenly you're the greatest thing that's ever been. What's the big fucking deal about hunting anyway? I can kill a few stupid animals. It makes me sick. Here you are with your boyfriend while I have to sit listening to stupid stories all day long. First this, First that…. Who cares?"

"The animals are not so stupid, and you should care, Varania. It is our - your - history, and a great honour."

"Oh fuck you, Leto."

Callum raised himself up, and sat crossed legged. What where they talking about – had he been so busy day dreaming he'd missed something important? "What's an honour?"

Varania twisted round to face the human, the flickering light of the flames flashing across her pale skin. "I'm being apprenticed to the Keeper. It means I am her First, and one day I'll be Keeper myself. My brother," She said with heavy emphasis, "seems to think this some huge honour and that I should be grateful for what essentially amounts to days spent stuck with an old woman telling old stories."

"I do believe it is an honour," Leto interrupted. "To be chosen to be First is to be given the opportunity to keep our history alive, to protect our clan and one day, perhaps, to guide it. It is an honour that you cannot earn. To be Keeper you must be born to it. It shows your value, Varania, and I am proud of you."

Varania glared at her brother, and before Callum knew what had happened she had thrown a stone across the fire at him. Leto caught it easily, and placed in by his side. He glared across at her, and finally showed his anger. "You throw stones, Varania, and you miss. One day I will throw a stone at you and I will not miss," he hissed at her, his unusually deep voice taking on a sinister tone that neither Callum nor Varania had heard before. Callum shivered, despite the flames burning merrily in front of him.

Leto got to his feet and walked off, his anger at the day's events overpowering him. Callum was alone with Varania. The girl was angrily drawling swirls in the dusty earth, seeming to be oblivious to his presence. Callum shifted, struck by the ridiculousness of his situation. Here he was, soon to be a Magister's apprentice, struggling for words. Something had happened, and Callum could feel his happiness and his future plans slipping away from him, and he didn't know why. Varania was supposed to be leaving with him. He had worried that something had happened, that perhaps she was avoiding him, rather than her brother separating them. But then he had met up with the other day and they had made furious and passionate love. Callum had, since then, been certain that she would leave with him, and now the two siblings were arguing about this Keeper thing, and it seemed like she wouldn't be _allowed_ to leave by the clan as a whole.

Callum swallowed, opening his mouth to speak when Varania burst out. "An honour?" she said, deepen her voice and pulling a face. "Yeah, right. All it is, Callum, is a Maker be damned death sentence. You know what Keepers do? They sit in their stupid tents all their stupid lives making up stupid rules for stupid fucking elves."

"So why don't you turn it down?" he asked.

"I dunno," she sighed, "It's difficult. My mother's delighted and my brother, Void taken him, is prouder than a pregnant wife. Plus, there's not much else I can do."

"Why?"

"Because of the magic, idiot. You must know I have magic – if I can feel it in you, you must feel it in me? Well, elves and magic – it's normal. We're a 'magical race', yeah? You know we used to be immortal, until your lot came along. So.. got magic? Become Keeper. It's just what it is. I've got to learn to control the magic, and Keepers teach Firsts."

Callum paused. He knew that elves could have Ability; there were even a few who were Magisters. But he hadn't realised that, in the wild, they knew it themselves, much less had methods to control it. He had always assumed it was something humans had taught them, out of interest or boredom or charity. He wondered how much they really knew about the slaves in his house, or the houses of his friends. He also agreed that the life of a Keeper sounded dull, especially when he was in a position to offer something so much better. Here, he knew, was his moment. "You know, if you came to the city under my, uh, banner, I could teach you magic."

Valania looked at him under her lashes, a smile ghosting across her lips. "Really? You could teach me.. 'magic'.. could you?" Her voice was flat, but there was a sense behind her words of things unsaid. Callum smiled, looking her straight in the eyes, taking the bait she offered, "I could teach you many things."

"Is that so?" She uncurled her legs from under her, and shifted around the fire to sit next to him. Callum sat up and stretched his legs out in front of him, a strong pulse beginning to beat in his groin as he watched her move sit next him. He felt himself harden, his under clothes pulling tight against him and his shifted position slightly, a move Varania noticed.

She smiled a small smile, her thigh ever so slightly brushing against his own. "Could you, dear friend? And what would you teach me, I wonder.." He failed to notice that her voice, flat and tinged with sadness, did not match the encouragement of her words. His attention was focused on other things. He swallowed. She was sitting next to him, and he could feel the heat from her body against his own. They were both facing towards the fire, however, and he could not see her face any longer or read her expression. He recognised her voice was low, but whether from lust of a desire not to attract her brother's attention he wasn't sure. He reached out his hand to her neck, and began running his fingers through her hair. She leaned back into his touch, and, encouraged, he shifted closer to her so that their thighs were now touching, his solid human leg dwarfing her slender eleven one. Keeping his fingers in her hair, he leant sideways and whispered in her ear.

"I could teach you what it is to be powerful, Varania." Where her brother had laughed earlier, the sister simply sighed, low and soft, and pressed herself against him. Encouraged, Callum moved his hand down her back, grazing the rise of her buttocks where they joined the small of her back. Callum felt overwhelmed with desire, his whole body straining to pick her up and take her, here, next to the fire. He realised that, if she were a slave at home that is exactly what he would do. The elves at home were like toys to be played with and he wondered why he couldn't do the same here. He was certainly more aroused by her, with the slowness and temptation of her invitation, than he had ever been by any other. He could feel a tension in his stomach, thrilling and sharp.

Varania moved away. She smiled thinly and said, "You are a good.." she paused, "friend.. Callum, but my place is here." She sighed, and settled nearer to the fire, running her hands through the flames. "My brother is right. It is an honour, and it will offer me control over my magic."

Callum, frustration making his voice more desperate than he would like, cried out "But I can help you to control it! I can give you anything, everything! Varania let me help you."

"You can't offer me anything I can't find here, Cal. In fact, you can only offer me less. Leto is right. Go to sleep, and life will begin again in the morning."

She moved over to where her brother had been sitting and curled up, letting sleep take her. Whether she had fallen asleep so easily to further insult him, or whether she was simply tired and hadn't realised his feelings, Callum couldn't tell. But he felt the insult of her rejection and a wave of anger swelled in his chest. He couldn't understand what had happened; he had no point of reference for such a refusal. He looked across at her and knew he had no power. He couldn't kill her, because her brother would surely kill him in return. He hadn't admitted earlier that he had hoped to frighten Leto with his lightening, to repay the favour and make it clear who held the power between the two. But Leto had merely looked disappointed, as if all his magical ability was nothing.

Of course, now Callum understood that between them the siblings must think themselves very fine and powerful! For the first time in his life, he felt weak, lost and embarrassed. His felt his cheeks burn, and a wholly different sickness to the arousal of a moment ago fill his stomach. He had let this child, this elf, take control from him, and he was ashamed. His eyes strung with tears he knew he wouldn't shed. He shifted himself from the fire, from the warmth that it provided, and tried to sleep.

His mind wandered, reliving the humiliation of the evening. Now eighteen, Callum had never really gone without, had not had something he wanted to much taken from him. I hate them, he thought, I hate them. They think they are powerful, they think they can tell me what to do. _She thinks she can control me, corral me by my cock, pick me up and then just drop me? Who the fuck does she think she is? I am the one in control, I am the one in control, I am the one in control.._

Such thoughts spun through his mind, chasing themselves, until he wasn't sure which was the first and what was the last. He lay on his back, glaring up at the stars, refusing to look at the elf that slept on the opposite side of the fire. He had no way to measure or recognise the emotions that coursed through him, the hatred that filtered through his mind. His reaction was strong, and unknown to him. Refusal was alien, and to be humiliated by one elf and spurned by another jarred the world that Callum knew. He cursed the elves, and felt his Ability rise unbidden, a physiological connection to his mental anguish, as natural to him as his cock's reaction had been earlier.

At some point he heard the soft footsteps of Leto returning, but he simply rolled on his side, turning his back to the fire. He heard the elder elf exhale slowly, and the rustle and fidgeting noises as Leto made himself comfortable by the fire. Before long, Callum could hear the measured breathing of his so-called friend falling asleep.

Perhaps, if Callum had not been raised to such grand heights by the expectations of his family, or if he had simply been a wealthy human and not a mage, or even if he had not grown-up in a land where elves were routinely treated little better than chattel he would not have felt so keenly the shock of denial and humiliation, built up over that last, long summer. His had own expectations of the way that the summer should have occurred. Leto should have been awe of his success and Varania compliant and grateful for his affection. But what had happened today only served to deepen the wounds he had received.

He was what he was. He seethed as his lay there, knowing he could do nothing to avenge himself, knowing that he had to do something to regain his lost sense of self and status.

It was as he twisted and turned that he felt the presence. He knew that there was another – not Varania, not Leto – in the same way they you can feel it when someone is watching you across a crowded room. His thumbs pricked, and the hair on his neck stood on end. Something had shifted in the air, and Callum sat up.

"Who's there?" He whispered, unsure if he wanted an answer.

The night was silent, but he still felt as if he were being watched. Uneasily, he stood and looked around the camp. The water was behind him, the elves opposite. He knew the area well, and nothing was out of place. In fact, it was as it had been for the last two summers. He cursed his imagination, and his stupidity. All this, this friendship, this life.. It's been the day dream of a child, he thought, but I am not a child_. I am an Apprentice Magister. I am powerful and I am in control of my life. Mixing with these.. creatures.. I have forgotten myself. And now I am behaving like a child frightened of the night. I've been so fucking stupid! Yes, tomorrow life will begin, Varania, just you fucking watch._ Callum lay down on the ground, closed his eyes and let his anger and his desires roll over him, more comforting than any blanket. It was then that the demon came to him, whispering in his ear as he slept.

o0o

Callum found himself in The Fade, the world of sleep and death. An ethereal mirror of the mortal world, The Fade exists on the other side of reality, just beyond the perception of the conscious mind. A fluid landscape, Callum could see the lake he and his so-called friends had swum in these last three summers, the tree that they used to climb, its branches dropping low into the water's edge. He could even see the dying embers of the fire floating up on gentle breezes and the two elves sleeping near to each other.

Callum knew the Fade was the creation of both spirits and demons, though demons seem to outnumber the spirits. They were jealous observers of the world, and had shaped their land to mirror his own.

Callum knelt down to touch the dry earth, drawing a line in the dust. The landscape around him was a poor transcription of the rich and textured human domain. The vibrant colours were bleached, washed out and running into shades of grey and beige. He walked to the tree, and touched the old familiar trunk. It felt solid, but it was cold enough to burn his finger, and, when he peered closely at the bark the knots in the wood blurred and distorted until any specific resemblance to the original was lost. The whole landscape was the same.

He walked towards Varania. She would be somewhere in the Fade as well, and Callum wondered if her dream would be as vivid as his own. Everyone enters the Fade, he knew, but most, especially those without magic, could not control their experience, and often forgot it when they woke.

Turning away from the elf, he looked up at the horizon, and saw it. The Black City. The only constant, the only solid thing in this world of smoke and desires. The Black City, once the seat of the Maker and the home of the dead, had been polluted by the folly of the Tevinter Imperium's Magisters and now squatted in the dreams of men. It was always visible in Fade, a reminder of what magic has lost the world.

Callum wondered if the spirits and demons came from the City. It was rumoured that the Darkspawn, those monstrous creatures that invaded the south every few hundred years, had once been the men who had entered the city. Callum thought it stood to reason that the current inhabitants of the Fade, who were so jealous of human life, would chose to live in the city that men had once de-consecrated, if only to be close to them. He looked again at the shadow of the female elf, and understood that need to be with the thing you loved, even in such a bastardised way.

Normally, Callum loved these moments in the Fade, when he was in control of his mind and could feel his magic pulsing through his body, but now he could only think about his humiliation and pain, and the tinny taste of his Ability was tainted by his emotion. The Fade is a land of almosts, slippery and intangible. But it feeds a mage's magic, it sings to those with Ability, a chorus of such beauty that to ignore it, to not draw on the swirling, kaleidoscope of energy and magic that danced through the very air, was incomprehensible.

The danger was that the demons and spirits of the Fade hear it too. Demonic possession can for some be the price of magic, and in the Southern lands of Thedas the Chantry and its Templars exists to control and cage the magical, and, if necessary, to put them down. Blood magic – an irresistible melody to the inhabitants of The Fade – is taboo, and anyone found practicing it are executed without second thought or regret. An Abomination, a mage possessed by a demon, could never be suffered to live. The Golden City fell as a result of man's hubris and the power that magic, blood magic especially, grants. The Chantry's stance is firm, and the Templars were trained to cut down a mage child within their own Circle walls as easily as an eighty year old apostate found hidden in the wilds if either was suspected of using blood magic or of having made a deal with a demon for power.

But Callum was not a mage in Southern Thedas. Templars and Circles had no meaning to him than starvation means to a rich man. He knew nothing of the censure or discrimination that other mages suffered due to their innate magical ability. He was soon to be an apprentice Magister, and he was born into a world where his connection to the Fade and the power it gave him was celebrated. Demons were not something to be feared, and a strong mage, a powerful mage, would be able to interact with, deal with and even control such demons with ease.

He looked again at the dream of Varania, and anger and need sparked across his soul. At that same moment, he felt hot breath on his neck, and knew he was not alone. The Desire Demon twisted close to Callum's ear, shaping it's words so that only he would hear. It whispered softly in a parody of a female voice, gently caressing his bruised ego.

It asked what his desire was, and Callum answered.

Callum twitched in his sleep, while in The Fade a deal was struck.


	9. Chapter 9

**9:20 Dragon**

**The Sheltered Lake, the Asariel Forest**

Leto awoke, the cold morning air shaking him from sleep. He stretched out his legs and arched his back. He was only eighteen, and a night spent on the ground had no real effect on him, except he felt extremely stiff and a little groggy. He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky, which was a pale yellow, the early morning sun having not yet had time to build up to the to the searing temperature of a Tevinter summer's day. The elf didn't get up straight away, instead preferring to watch the sky, waiting for the light to become less milky as the sun rose up higher. He put his hands behind his head and let his mind wander.

He was relieved that Callum was leaving in the next few days. The incident with the nug, though he accepted that Callum probably hadn't realised the animal was there, had never the less highlighted for Leto those aspects of his friend's character that he was beginning to find unpleasant. He was also worried about the tension that had been present between Callum and his sister. He suspected that something was going on between them, and had realised how sulky and aggressive the human was whenever his sister wasn't present. Leto felt now that he truly regretted the morning two years ago when he had stumbled on the mage. Not only had he exposed himself, his secrets and his fears, but he seemed to have also pushed his sister in the way of someone who was powerful, spoilt and increasingly aggressive. An uneasy sense settled on him, as he began to think about his old friends in his clan, his fellow elves, who he had held up to the human and, for the last two years, found lacking. A sense of guilty embarrassment fell over him as he realised he had allowed himself to become yet more distant, even allowing for his natural difficulty in making friends. The human had for a long time seemed so strange and fascinating that he had held him in higher regard than he now felt Callum deserved. Leto sighed, and decided that, once they had begun the trek away from Tevinter, he would put real effort into overcoming his natural lack of social skills and seriously work to rebuilt the friendships he had left fallow over the last twenty four months. He also swore that he would regain the relationship with his sister, as it was the loss of that friendship that hurt him most keenly.

He realised as he lay there, staring up at the sky, that he had for years thought of Tevinter in the same way as he had Callum; as some kind of mystical land that had the power to heal him, to make him feel like he had a home. In fact, Tevinter was just the same as anywhere. All these years he had convinced himself that not being there made him sick; it seemed ridiculous now in the cold early morning. All he had done was allow a stupid childish fantasy to manifest itself in his body and to fuel an obsession with an outsider, instead of dealing with his feelings like an adult. He chewed his lip. He could admit that he had been wrong about both Tevinter and Callum, but he couldn't deny the sickness that he felt the further he got from the Imperium. Was that caused by his imagination as well, or was it genuine? Even if the sickness was real, perhaps if he told someone, the Keeper for example, they could help him. When he thought about the Keeper, he felt another wave of shame wash over him. His sister would be Keeper one day, and how would he be able to help her, to support her, if he did not learn to overcome his trepidation and involve himself with his people? No, instead he had sought out, actively, someone he could build a friendship with who had absolutely no connection to his tribe. Someone who had turned out to be arrogant and aggressive; _and not, I must confess, too dissimilar to myself._ But Leto had a second chance, the summer was ending, Callum was leaving for a new life and Leto could reclaim his old one.

_No time like the present_.

It was with this new resolve in his mind that he rolled over to wake his sister and Callum, and suggest that the all head back to their own homes. Frowning, Leto sat up. Looking from left to right, he jumped up to his feet. The extra height made no difference; he was definitely alone. He could easily see the patch of black earth where the fire had burnt out, and could just make out in the dry earth what looked like the outline of a body, which he guessed was where his sister had been sleeping. Callum had been feigning sleep about three metres from the fire when he had returned last night, so he decided to check the earth around there for any signs. It was extremely unlikely that an animal had decided to attack the group – especially unlikely that Leto would have slept through it – but not, he supposed, impossible. He needed to check the ground, see if he could work out if anything had happened, or at the very least see which direction his sister had gone in. Sighing heavily, Leto huffed his away around the site, looking for clues in the dusty earth. After a brief search, he managed to find a set of footsteps that must have been Callum's. They were too large to be his sisters, and the flat, smooth quality of the print suggested that the walker had been wearing shoes, something neither of the elves did. They footprints headed away from the forest, and Leto assumed that the mage had at some point decided to go home. Perhaps he and Varania had had a fight? Maker knew the tension between the two of them had reached fever pitch over the last few weeks. Leto had half expected when he returned last night to find them at each other throats, one way or the other. Looking around him now, he guessed that wasn't a possibility any more. Still, there was something strange.. Callum he could easily imagine running off in a sulk, but Varania would have woken him up, angry and impatient. Where had his sister gone? He looked around the camp again. His eyes drifted back to one spot, and his heart started to beat faster. He swallowed thickly, trying to push down the panic rising up from his stomach. A terrible thought was slouching across his mind. _There was only one set of footprints_. He started to follow to the steps as they led towards the clan's campsite, and then broke into a run.

o0o

In just fifteen minutes Leto had covered the greater part of the journey home, he had run so fast. His lungs burning and his eyes streaming, he slowed down his pace. There was something wrong, but he didn't know what. _Something.. something smelt wrong_.. he closed his eyes, tried to slow his breathing down and focus his mind, but he couldn't. He throat was tight and stinging and his heart was beating so hard in his chest he could feel it. S_omething's wrong, something's wrong_. He realised he was talking to himself, his lips shaping the words running through his head. He had to get a grip, to calm down. He was still moving towards home, but he was no longer running. He tried again to centre himself, to let his instinct and his training take over. His couldn't silence the voice in his mind, _something's wrong, something's wrong_, but he was able to quieten it. Again he smelt it, a smokey, sweet smell that set his teeth on edge, and a new swell of anxiety rolled through him. He knew when he had smelled that smell before: in the forest, when Callum had electrocuted the nug.

His body was shaking with panic, and he was still speaking to himself, his normally deep voice cracked and dry. He walked slowly towards the site, and now he knew what he was looking for he saw it everywhere. There leaves on the trees were blackened and burnt, the earth beneath his feet had long, thin gashes carved into it and the trees were tarnished black with soot. The smell got worse the closer he got to the camp. He could hear his own voice; he had no idea what he was saying, only that he couldn't stop babbling. On jittery legs he stepped out of the forest and into the camp.

Everyone was dead.

Tears now rolling down his face, Leto walked through the camp, circling what was once the central tent. The smell was unbearable. He glanced to his left and saw the charred body of.. he couldn't tell.. _it's too.. it looks like.. oh Maker, the smell_. And suddenly he was spewing, bile and last night's fish rising up against the sights and the smells that surrounded him. He hadn't been expecting it, and his body jerked forward quickly, instinct trying to stop him from choking to death on his vomit, but all this did was bring his head closer to the cooked remains and he heaved again, and again. Rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth he stumbled backwards, his eyes stinging as tears fogged his vision.

They were all dead. He knew they were, but he forced himself to keep checking, and he continued stumbling around the camp. He had no idea how long it took him. He had had to stop again and again to throw up. His ribs ached and the taste of bile in his mouth mingled with the sickeningly sweet smell the cloyed around him. He hadn't stopped crying. At one point he had heard a dreadful sound, a wailing childlike cry that had reached into his hindbrain and had him running to where he thought it had come from, but after frantic searching, he realised that the sound had come from him. He had been screaming, and he hadn't realised.

Eventually he stumbled back into the forest, and walked as far away from the burnt earth as his feeble body could carry him. Then he lay on the ground and fell asleep, his whole being just shutting down. He awoke a couple of hours later, and for a second didn't understand where he was, or why he was sleeping on the forest floor. Then he remembered. He sat up, but he felt calmer now. Leto paused, trying to think what he should do next. He should go back, check again to see if Varania, his mother and father were among the dead. He felt his throat constrict and panic rise at the thought of seeing their bodies, but then the feeling subsided again. He knew he had to find out. Slowly, he made his way back to the camp. This time he blocked out the smells, and looked down at the burnt, sticky bodies of his clan dispassionately. He wasn't sure how he was able to do it, but he managed to see them as objects, and he was able, this time, to walk through the camp checking each body thoroughly for signs of who it had once been. He found himself looking for minute clues, as he would have done if he were tracking. He knelt down to exam each body and some separate and distant part of him wondered why he wasn't still screaming.

He found his father. It had been on the second or third sweep, but he was sure it was him. He had always worn a very distinctive belt buckle, made of silver woven into an intricate, snaking pattern which Aryion had made for him some years before. Initially, Leto hadn't notice it because the silver was melted into the corpse, when he went round again the sun had caught the silver edge that wasn't..._ that was still exposed_, his mind, shying away from what his eyes were seeing, supplied. He knelt down by the dead body and, very gently, peeled and pulled the silver shape from the body. His brain shut out the crisp, crackling noise that accompanied the moment the buckle tore from the skin, but he found he was crying again. Wiping his eyes with his forearm, he studied the deformed shape that now rested in the palm of his hand. Squinting, he could make out the original pattern, and what looked like it might once have been a name, engraved in the centre. He balanced on his haunches next to the body of his father, and let the wailing sobs wrack through his body. He must have been there for an hour or so before tiredness overwhelmed him, and he went back into the forest and slept.

When he woke again it was night. He didn't know what to do. He realised he was alone, completely alone. All his life he had always had his home to return to. He had been able to explore the world, secure in the knowledge that he was safely tethered. Now that line had been cut, and he was drifting loose. He couldn't stay where he was. The smell of cooked meat still hung heavy in the air, and, he realised with dreadful certainly, would soon attract wild animals. He was no coward, but he had no weapon and was still only dressed in his tunic and leggings from the night before. He tried to order the thoughts that were dancing across his mind.

I can't stay here.

_Everyone's dead._

It is too dangerous.

_My father's dead. _

I need to get higher, I am alone in the forest at night.

_They're all dead._

I'll walk back to the lake.

_I killed them._

I can sleep in the tree next to the lake.

_It's all my fault._

Tomorrow, I will travel to the human city.

_Will I see my mother again?_

I will find Callum.

_Will I see my sister again?_

And then I will kill him.

_Did I kill them too?_


	10. Chapter 10

**9.18 Dragon Age**

**The Senate Buildings, Minrathous**

Danarius stalked out of the Senate, his body near rigid with anger. His staff clacked against the marble floor as he made his way quickly to his chambers. Despite being a full Magister for a number of years, he found his obligations on the various Senate counsels to be a total and utter waste of his valuable time. Reaching the heavy door to his private rooms, he sighed with relief as he let himself in, shutting it behind him. He turned the key in the lock and lent against the warm, dark wood. As they always did when he was alone, his thoughts instantly turned to The Project.

Danarius had led an extremely _focused_ life since that night twenty-one years ago, when he had discovered the secret of the weapon. His station had risen quickly and immensely. He had been one of the youngest Magisters in the history of the Senate, and the wealth of his estate had continued to grow under his careful eye. Knowing that he would need every resource possible to conduct his lyrium experiments, nothing had been left to chance and he had worked hard to maintain and increase his fortune. Yet, despite his ascent, in many ways he had lost something. Never a kind man he had a least been affable, but after over twenty years of searching for the right components for his weapon, he had lost many of his carefully constructed people skills. Whereas once his chambers would have been lavishly comfortable they were now unwelcoming, and the few visitors than ventured in never stayed for long. The furnishings themselves were expensive enough; richly woven rugs from Seheron littered his floor, lamps and vases from Orlais decorated the fine Imperium crafted furniture, but there were too few logs burning in the fire and the heavy curtains were always drawn against the light.

In addition to the complete loss of his empathy, a facet of his personality that he had had only a tenuous grip on in the first place, he also realised that the political upheaval that would have allowed him and his weapon to seize power in the south was now beginning to waver. The lands of Ferelden were settling into a hesitant peace, and Orlais had retreated into itself to lick its wounds and the civil war in Antiva had drawn to a close. Although the distant kingdoms were still unstable, they were no longer so isolated and paranoid as to make it a simple task for him to ascend to power. He wondered why he continued with his experiments, and was forced to accept that what had once been a means to an end had, at some unknown point in the last two decades, become the end itself.

The search for the weapon had consumed his youth, and the young man who had once looked back at him from the mirror was now older, his blonde hair speckled with silver and deep lines etched into the skin around his eyes and mouth. Not a particularly vain man, Danarius only noticed his age as a marker for his achievements, and found himself lacking. Oh, he knew that to the other Magisters he was a figure to be feared and envied. His prowess with blood magic had steadily grown as a result of his experimentation and, along with his fortune and famous name, had created a persona that intimated even the highest ranking officials. The younger apprentices were simply terrified of him. But it wasn't enough, he wanted his weapon. He wanted it more than ever, he wanted it now just to know that he could have it, that he had solved the riddle and been the one to harness the deadly power of so much lyrium. He needed to and had to succeed.

He moved now to his desk, and as always the first task he attended to was to read the report from his surgery, which was, as usual, depressing. _More lyrium wasted, another slave dead_. The weapon, Danarius had discovered that fateful night, was a living person whose body was literally imbued with raw lyrium. The process of infusing lyrium into living tissue was proving to be extremely difficult, and in truth Danarius didn't know if it was a fault with the processing of the lyrium or with the test subjects.

But, as always, he carefully wrote down all the details, searching for meaning in the piles of data he was amassing. He knew that fully processed lyrium did not work, and he had been slowly working backwards to the raw material. It was counter-intuitive to use raw lyrium, given its extremely toxic effects, but then everything about this process went against common reasoning or knowledge, and it increasingly seemed likely that raw lyrium was the correct ingredient. He had also discovered that the subject needed to be prepared in a certain way, and after years of careful research had found an incantation that had allowed most, if not all, of his subjects to survive a few hours after the insertion of the lyrium under their skin.

Yet they still died, their bodies just giving up, unable to cope not only with the lyrium running through their skin and muscle, but also with the severity of the operation itself. The procedure required long welts to be carved into the skin, into which the molten lyrium would be poured. The cuts had to be precise, so that they threads of burning hot lyrium would fit into them exactly, the heat cauterizing the wound and welding the skin to the ore. They also had to be deep – too shallow and the body didn't imbibe the lyrium's power. Danarius wasn't sure how much how many tattoos were required, but so far had been working on the premise that the more extensive the tattooing, the more power the weapon would be. _But they just kept dying!_

Danarius was not a superstitious man. He believed that he could use lyrium to create a living weapon, but as he had grown older the idea of a magical man with the Maker given ability to survive the process seemed unlikely, and his methodology required he use as many variables as possible. He suspected that they would be some factor, either in blood or in brain, which would allow the fusion. _But they all died_. Age, species or sex seemed to make no difference. He was a patient man and he persevered, though Maker knew his slave bills were high, and was he was not an arrogant man. Though he didn't believe it was possible that there was only one person in all Thedas who could become his weapon, he had to admit that there had to be some missing factor in the choice of subject that would allow them to survive the ordeal. Therefore he had a number of years ago cast a spell to draw any likely candidates to him. He had selected for year of birth, which had been obvious given the original prophecy, but also for a certain mentality: a distance from the world and a focus, that Danarius thought might help the subject survive the ordeal. So far he had had two lost individuals arrive on his doorstep, unsure why they were there but feeling that they needed to be with him. One had been a Dwarf, instantly a waste of time due to their natural resistance; the other a human who had to date provided the best results. She was dead now, of course, but she had lived for at least a day after the lyrium was branded into her, by far the record.

He looked back her records, and tried to understand what could possibly make her different from all the others. She had been human, but then so had the fourth and thirteenth. He didn't believe her sex could be a variable, as he had been careful to use both men and women equally. Race and species also seemed to have little correlation to the success rate. He belligerently refused to accept that it he may in fact have to find one specific person, an impossible task even with his almost unlimited funds.

Danarius cursed under his breath. He wasn't willing to give up on his ambition, but he had to concede that he needed a better way to find the someone who would actually survive the operation and, he thought glumly, be in a fit state to actually be of use to him afterwards.

He went back once again to the original book, willing some hidden answer to suddenly appear on the page. He sat down heavily in the chair by his desk, arching his pale fingers together in front of lips the book open on the desk in front of him. He could feel his breath against his hands, and focused on his breathing, letting his mind wander. He thought again about the woman who had survived. He was gratified that his spell was serving some purpose, in that it had brought him, to date, the most viable test subject and thus the most successful experiment. The spell then was attracting _potentially_ the right candidates. But the dwarf had been a dead end, and the woman, ultimately, the same. He looked again at her file, and then at the brief notes he held on the dwarf. Nothing in common except their births, which had been within a year of each other. But beyond that? Not even their hair colour had been same, let alone the lineage, their place of birth, their skin colour, their species.

Danarius felt his frustration building, and again concentrated on calming himself. So. Obviously it was important when they had been born, but other than that the spell was unfocused. He thought about the other qualities he had instructed the spell to search for. He wanted someone focused, determined.. but who would be determined to deform themselves in such a way? What type of person would have the mentality to undergo the process, the mind blanking pain, and then fight to for their survival during the operation and long recovery afterwards?

Danarius leant forward, resting his elbows on his desk, his mind working faster now, chasing a thought that might, just, lead him to his answer. It had to be the _right _type of person, that much was clear, who along with the right birth would have the right mental and physical fortitude to undergo the process. There was this mythical individual out there – more than one, no doubt, as many of his subject died afterwards, not during. There was also the case of the year of their birth, perhaps the change in the Age had some effect on them? Either way, he reasoned that, against the odds the actual "mythical" element was in fact not the problem. The problem was finding someone with the stamina for the operation. He had been looking for determination, but perhaps he needed a stronger, more guttural quality, like jealousy or desire. He paused in his thoughts, his consciousness supplying him with the words 'anger' and 'love'. The thought made the Magister smile. Love or anger were emotions that he could easily manipulate. He set to work to refine the spell. If nothing else, he reasoned, he was learning a lot about lyrium.

o0o

Danarius had just finished adjusting his seeking spell. He wiped his sticky hands on the towel that one of the slaves had darted up to give to him. He looked down at the bloodied slave heaped at his feet, and sighed. Another one to be replaced, but he supposed that was the price of being thorough. He didn't bother to instruct the remaining elves to clear up the mess; he simply stepped around the slumped pile on the floor and exited the room. He knew the next time he went in there it would be gone.

Now he had to concentrate on other things. He was due at a formal dinner that evening, and loathe as he was to attend he knew it couldn't be avoided. A visiting delegation from Ferelden were due to be wined and dined, and, as the region was re-establishing its self and its new independence from Orlais, it was important for the Imperium to be seen to be open to trade with the new state.

And so the Magister found himself, less than two hours later, sat on a long table in one of the great senate halls, trying hard to hide his irritation. The delegation was, as he had suspected, boorish and undignified. The table groaned under the weight of the rich fatty meats these dog lords so loved to stuff themselves with, the jugs of sour smelling ale that kept constantly circling under his nose were making him feel nauseous and the music, the horrendous, bawdy country songs that his ears were being subjected to was giving him a pounding headache. Danarius wanted nothing more than to escape to his own cool study with his bottles of wine and his books, so when the woman sitting next to him began to run her hand up and down his thigh he stood up gracefully and curtly excused himself, saying he needed to take some air.

Outwardly unaffected, inside he was seething; but he was, and always had been, a master at his craft, and tonight the magic he needed to weave was that of an interested person. Still, he knew he could escape the meal for a few minutes without causing offence, and he doubted the women, some Arls wife, would be sober enough notice the snub.

He walked out through the tall glass doors to stand on the balcony that overlooked the Senate Gardens. He breathed in deeply, letting the more familiar smells of Tevinter sooth him. He was just beginning to relax and mull over the problem of the weapon when one of the dog lords stumbled through the doors, crashing in the Magister.

"Apologies, Ser. I didnt see you there."

Danarius smiled, hoping that the drunkard would take the hint and return to the festivities inside.

"The gardens here are something. We don't get gardens like that back home. S'all mud and shit and turnips!", he slurred, laughing at his own joke. Danarius remained silent, not wanting to encourage more conversation with the man. He vaguely recognised the Ferelden as one of the Arls. He was a rat faced man with a hooked nose, grey hair and a small, pointed beard. Danarius was not a remarkable looking man, but he appreciated the aesthetics of beauty, and he found this drunken, ugly foreigner repugnant.

"I know you, by the way, Ser."

Danarius wasn't wholly surprised, used as he was to his fame within the Imperium, but he did raise an eyebrow at the prospect of his reputation having reached so far. Curiosity overcame his distaste, and he enquired where exactly the Arl was from.

"Amaranthine, but that's not how I you. I was at one of your parties, about fifteen, sixteen years ago. You don't remember me I suppose?"

Danarius looked at the man more closely, trying to imagine what he might have looked like fifteen years younger, without a brutal civil war under his belt.

"You will excuse me, I hope. You have me, I confess, at a loss."

The man snorted unattractively into his mug, and took another pull at his disgusting ale. "You Magisters.. you think you're better than everyone. But you know what? I know better, _ser_. I saw what went on at that party of yours, fuck, I joined in." He paused, and then in a sing-song voice continued, "Look in that room there, and you tell me what you see."

Danarius sighed and glanced into the room, before returning his gaze to the rat-faced man in front of him.

"I see Fereldens, Arl. Nothing more."

"Ah yes, I betcha do. Dirty, huh? Compared to you. We don't look right in that big, marble room with that thin china and those statues hiding away in the curtains. Our castles, you see, are made of stone, built on mud. But you.. look at you all.. You use magic, right? You don't use yer hands or yer bodies to create anything. Hah, you don't even wipe your own arses, do you? Got your little boys and girls for that, right? All those thin, delicate little knife ears running around doing the heavy lifting. And I seen what you lot do to them," and he burst out laughing again, but when he spoke next his voice was so low as to be a whisper, "I saw what _you_ do to them sirrah, and you aint so damned grand as you think you are. Us? We might be dirty and we might be of the earth, but we just beat Orlais, and we don't rely on magic and we don't _fuck_ those disgusting little runts. How many of them do you think have got your precious blood in them? Ha, well, maybe not your blood coz you don't like the girls, do you, but you Magisters, I mean? I bet there are hundreds of pointy eared, skinny little Magisters running around this city, cleaning up shit while getting fucked from behind and thanking you for it. Leastways, in Ferelden, we know who we are, and we do our own dirty work, and we keep our line _clean_. You remember that before you shove my wife away from you, Magister Danarius." And with that the Arl turned precariously on his heel and went back to the party.

Danarius stood by the balcony, returning his gaze to the gardens. He turned over the man's speech in his mind, wondering which party he had been referring to. He felt no shame in what the man said; if anything he felt embarrassed for him. But he had to wonder exactly who he was and why he might have invited him to one of his 'gatherings'. He must be someone with a great deal or power or influence, though he hardly looked it. The last time Danarius had needed to hold one of those events had been when he had been securing his place in the senate, and trying to discover any information about the weapon, which must have been much more that fifteen years ago now. He vaguely remembered his last, large scale function, which must have been about twenty years ago. He had had some trouble with some slaves, one had lost her mind and tried to attack him with a fruit knife of all things, and another had run off.

His thoughts turned to what the man had said about the slaves, and he wondered how much truth there was in it. It was certainly true that the Magister used their slaves in such a way; why should they not? They had bought the elf, put a roof over its head and gave it some purpose in life. But Danarius had to admit he had never really thought about the 'fruit' of any such union. Not being particularly keen on women, he supposed he had never had to consider it. Any babies that were born in his house were either sold off or taken to the coastal cliffs anyway. He wondered what a half-elf half-Magister would look like. _I suppose it would depend on the Magister_, he thought.

Danarius was just about to return to the party when he remembered why the other elf had run off, all those years ago. She had just had a baby, and had stolen it away in the early hours of the morning. Danarius chuckled to himself under his breath. _To give up your life for something as easily replaced as a child_. _Thank the Maker,_ he told himself, _that those poor, stupid creatures have humans to watch over them, even if we may 'fuck them from behind' while we do it._ The ridiculousness of the thought made Danarius laugh, and the heads of those seated closest to the window all turned to look at the famous senator and Magister return to the party, laughing uproarious to himself.


	11. Chapter 11

**9.21 Dragon Age**

**Egidius' Manor, Minrathous**

Varania sank heavily into the soft, wide bed. It had been six months since she and her mother had deserted the clan with Callum, and she was beginning to realise that her life in the human city was not all that she had been promised. She started chewing the nail on her thumb, staring unseeing through the large Orlesian window at the strange, unnatural city scape that was now her home. She had never actually wanted to leave her clan, and now here she was.

She had more than once berated herself for her quick temper and rash tongue during the course of her first bitter Minrathous winter. She had only gone to Callum that night because she had been drunk and angry, and she had known that he would comfort and compliment her. The heady balm of his devotion had soothed her, calming her bruised ego and making her feel important and needed. Flashes of that night darted across her memory as she bit her nail to the quick.

..His hot breath on her skin, his fast, whispered endearments spilling against her ear, her neck, her stomach; the wine warming her blood as she had asked him why he loved her and her greedy laughter when he answered; the taste of his devotion on her lips.. it had seemed so natural to tell him what he had wanted to hear as well, to give him what he needed and not break the spell they were weaving together...

The sharp, bitter tang of blood blossomed on her tongue, and Varania switched from her thumb to her finger.

She still couldn't quite understand what had led her to follow him to this dirty, lavish, Maker forsaken city. The promises she had made by firelight she had thought would disappear with the burning embers. Varania was not heartless, but she hadn't really understood the depths of Callum's affection until she had, on her brother's insistence, met with him to tell him she would not be leaving with him. To Varania the concept of someone seeing only her, loving her with such a terrible, passionate fanaticism was wholly unbelievable and utterly addictive. She had been used to a world where she was seen only as a means to her brother, the interesting, mysterious one. She had never felt like she was the destination, the centre of attention rather than a distraction from it. Could she really blame herself if wine and loneliness had caused her to make promises she couldn't keep? Wasn't it just another case of her quick mouth once again landing her in the shit? She was used to being told _watch you language, still your tongue_and _can't you be more like Leto?_

Varania suppressed a shudder when she thought of her brother, of the anger on his face and the embarrassingly painful sight of him crying. She hadn't meant to say those things to him, and the guilt of her words cast a long shadow over her current life. Could she blame him for not trying to find her? She figured they must be well on the way to Orlais now, or perhaps even venturing further to the southernmost lands of Ferelden.

Varania struggled to her feet from the deep, cloying mattress, and wandered to one of the many tall bookshelves that lined the walls of her chamber. She pulled a large, heavy tome from the shelf, pleased with the dull ache that throbbed from her bitten down finger tips as they tipped the spine. She flipped through the pages, looking at the patterns of ink, trying to understand how these little black spots and lines could talk to her.

Like so much of her new life, she felt that there was an answer, some vital piece of information hidden away from her, the same way she knew that there were messages behind the shapes and symbols that webbed over the paper in her hands. Yet every time she turned her mind towards _why_she had left her home, betrayed her promise to her brother and against all reason felt the need to kidnap her mother her thoughts became muddy and uncertain, flashes of emotion and imagery the only clues she had to guide her.

She could recall the long afternoon she had spent pretending to listen to the chitter chatter of the other girls in the camp, all the while building up her courage to meet her brother and Callum, and to tell the human that she had no intention of leaving with him. Although she had not exactly relished the idea of going back on her word, as she had walked through the woods to the lake the two young men seemed to forever inhabit, she had found herself getting more and more nervous, until, by the time she arrived, she had wound herself up so tight she hadn't been able to _not_ argue with her brother. She hoped he didn't remember her like that, with her face screwed up and spiteful. She had felt so angry with him for taking away her choices and for, once again, being right. She had hated the fact that his logic was sound and his motives were genuinely for her own good. Twice she had screamed at him that day, and neither times he had deserved it.

Varania placed the book carefully on one of the many end-tables, and stood drumming her tender fingers on the hard leather cover, her breath hissing through her teeth with each dull pat of her pad against the surface.

And then Callum.. he had seemed so genuinely hurt by her refusal. She hadn't expected that. She knew he felt strongly for her; it was his strength of feeling towards her, she ruefully acknowledged, that continued to formed the larger part of her attraction to him. But the way he had reacted, the betrayal and pain in his eyes. She hadn't know what to say or do to ease his obvious suffering and so she had, for the first time in her life, taken the cowards way out and turned her back on him, shut him out and forced herself to sleep.

She looked around the room she now called hers.. or rather, her _master's_. She hated the pretence, but she had grown up enough in the last half year to realise that, if she and her mother had any chance of survival, it was with Callum at their side.

He was kind to her, she knew, and she understood the censure he received for that same kindness. The old man seemed to look on Callum's so-called infatuation with patronizing condescension. The other one, the young woman, did little to hide her disgust in private, but in public – as long as Callum didn't draw attention to Varania – she seemed able to tolerate the relationship. Her mind drifted back to that late summer's day.

She had woken early, the sun having not yet risen but the sky light and the air sharp with early morning frost. She had seen her brother asleep near her, and had felt relieved that he hadn't really abandoned her the night before. And then she had found herself in shadow and had looked up to see Callum standing over her.. and she had wanted him. No, that wasn't right. She had needed him, in the same way that she needed to breathe. She had replayed that moment in her mind a thousand times, and she still didn't understand what had happened. Her whole being had ached for him and before she could stop herself she had been on her feet and in his arms, holding him as tightly to her as she could, kissing every inch of him that she could reach, that her mouth could find, nonsense and endearments falling from her lips like petals from a flower.

He had told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him too.

He had said they were leaving, and she had simply asked that they take her mother, and then, suddenly, her memories jumped and the three of them were riding in a carriage, the movement of the wheels on the stone road jolting and bruising her. She had looked across from her seat next to Callum to her mother, and had felt the first sense that something was terribly, terribly wrong. She hadn't been able to place it at first, it was just a notion that something was out of place. It had jarred like a wrong note in an otherwise beautiful melody, but she couldn't pin it down.

She stared now at her mother, who was sat neatly in a one of the curious, tall human chairs. Aryion looked much the same as she ever did, which was to say that she looked mere seconds from a merciful death. Her pale skin was stretched tight across her bones, and her hair hung lifeless around her shoulders. What occupied her thoughts her daughter had no way of knowing.

For as long as Varania could remember her mother had been weak and sickly. She had never been able to imagine how Aryion had ever done anything before she had married her father and joined the clan. The stories of her saving her brother from, Varania now new, a life of slavery had always seemed implausible, no matter how often she was assured of their truthfulness. The fact of the matter was that to Varania her mother had always been a handicap, a burden to be cared for and looked after during the long weeks when her father, and latterly her brother, would be absent. It had been her lot in life to tend to all the dull, indoorsy tasks that were beneath the men of her family, and she had struggled under the perceived burden of unappreciated mediocrity for most of her life.

Varania stood uprooted in the opulence that Callum had provided for her, staring now at her mother and wondering why she had insisted on bringing her, when she could have easily left her at the camp with Leto and the rest. There was no reason to have subjected the elder woman to the torture of a return to Minrathous. She had learnt a lot since her arrival in the city about the life her mother had escaped, had saved herself and her brother from. She saw the other elves, the slaves, scuttle around the house, always carrying something, always busy, always afraid. She had tried to speak to them, but they had looked at her with such hatred she now worked hard to avoid them, spending most of her time in the house in the large chambers the old man had given over to Callum.

She wished she had spared her mother the anguish of returning to this barbaric city, but she hadnt know then what Aryion had escaped, what she was returning her to. During the journey she had begun to worry what would happen when Aryion recognised the landscape around the city of Minrathous. It had been as she had studied her mother more closely that she had seen what was wrong, the faint note of disquiet that had been screaming out at her for the entire journey. Her mother hadn't moved once. Not even when the unfamiliar wooden trap had jumped and jolted over the stony Imperial Highway that had led away from Asariel, nor when they had left the carriage to stretch their tired, stiffened muscles. Aryion had just sat there, her round, sunken eyes staring out of her skull at nothing.

Varania had got up from her seat and knelt on the floor between her mother legs. She had waved her hand in front of the old elf's eyes, but received no reaction. She had spoken her name softly, then shouted at her until finally, in a maelstrom of fear and guilt, shaken the frail woman with all her strength. Aryion had looked at Varania and, patting her daughters clenched fists with her own scrawny hands, said in a quiet voice "May I have something to eat now?" before drifting back into silence.

Back in the present, Varania looked down at her dress, smoothing out the soft material. It really was beautiful, a deep shade of green with lighter braiding running in long lines from her bust to the skirt which skimmed the floor. She poked her toes out from under the hem, flexing them against the pinching leather shoes she still hadn't got used to wearing. Her hair was carefully tied and bound in exquisite, intricate knots at the nape of her neck. She admitted that she looked stunning, but she also knew that the only other people who would see her like this were Callum and her mother.

A small, forsaken sob escaped her.

o0o

Much later, Callum walked into the bedroom and felt his dark mood instantly lift when he saw his most beautiful possession standing in the clothes he had bought for her, her deep red hair warmed by the sun streaming through the high windows.

He was, even after six months, still overwhelmed by the longing she invoked in him. Every rational sense he had warned him against it, and yet every time he saw her he couldn't help himself; he had to touch her, he had to feel her skin next to his own. Those features that were in every other respect abhorrent to him in his slaves were in Varania yet more evidence of her beauty, grace and passion.

He adored her slight figure and petite stature, her thin bones, narrow hips and small bust - all the things that were so very distasteful and different from human women. The girls of his childhood had been thick set, buxom things bred for summers spent in the field and long, cold winters. They had been hardy, rose cheeked and soft to the touch. Varania couldn't lay claim to any of those qualities, least of all softness. Her long, tapering elven frame had not an ounce of spare flesh to see her through leaner times, and she herself was hard and unyielding.

Callum compared her to Hadriana, and the other, more sophisticated city women. They were certainly slender and held themselves as well as Varania, but even this wasn't enough to distract him from his fascination with her. He obsessed over the way her pointed ears rested long and low against her small skull, her large eyes which were so much wider and more expressive than a human's, her straight ridgeless nose that dominated her face and gave the impression she was always looking down on you. He couldn't hide his passion for her from himself, and nor did he wish to. He had made his choice and accepted his perversion that night by the lake.

Callum had never censured himself for nor denied himself his pleasures, and saw no reason to begin now. Let that bitch Hadriana snipe away at him, it didn't matter what the world thought or what it cost him: he had his heart's desire.

He walked across the room towards Varania until he stood behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"How was your day, Sweet?" he asked her, pulling her tight against him.

"The same as yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that. Maker, Cal, why do you ask such stupid questions all the time?"

Callum tightened his grip on her, and through gritted teeth asked, "What exactly do you expect me to do about that? You refuse to leave the room!"

Varania squirmed out of his embrace and turned on him, her green eyes flashing. "You want me to go out there?" Angrily she gestured towards the window, towards the city.

"Yes. Or you could come with me to the library or the gardens, if you don't want to come into town."

Varania snorted, folding her arms across her chest. "You know what would happen if I joined your lessons. That bitch hates me. The old man, the other elves, they all hate me. Every time I step out the door I feel them all looking at me, judging me for being with you."

Callum walked over to her, placing his large hands on her shoulders. "I know this isn't exactly what we wanted. But it'll only take a few years for my apprenticeship, and then if you want we can go somewhere else, perhaps to Qarinus."

"Why can't we go back to Asariel?"

"Why would you want to? There's nothing there for us. Your family won't want to see you, will they? Not after abandoning them and kidnapping your mother. You think Leto will forgive you for taking his mother, for walking out on your duty? I doubt he will, don't you?"

Varania shrugged, but she uncrossed her arms and rested her head against his chest.

"No."

"No. Exactly. It's just you and me, Sweet." Callum tipped her head up towards his own and kissed her, relaxing when he felt her returning his kiss.

He pulled away from her, holding her beautiful face in his hands. "I love you. Come out with me now, it'll be ok."

Varania glanced at her mother, who hadn't moved since the morning.

"OK," she paused, "I love you too, Cal."


	12. Chapter 12

**9:20 Dragon**

**Asariel City, Tevinter**

The wind carried the bird higher as it swooped across the fields and farm land. It had been flying for just over week, trying hard to outrun the winter as it creeped across the north. From its advantage far above the ground, the bird's small, sharp eyes had seen the landscape change from the sparkling, crystal clarity of the wide fjords in the west, over the snow-capped mountains of the Anderfells to the rich plains of the Imperium, pushing forward every day. The journey from west to east was long and hard, taking the small creature across vast stretches of Thedas. It had seen the world change in minute detail beneath its wings, awarded a view of the land that only belonged to the birds and the gods. Now on the horizon it spotted a low, circular shape, a mass of bricks and smoke. A city.

The bird tipped its wings, changing course. A city meant food; rich fatty scraps that would fill its belly and provide reserves for the journey onwards, past Rivain and out across the oceans. Riding the air currents, it allowed the wind streams to buffet it upwards and downwards, expending as little energy as possible, adjusting only for direction. Soon the city was in sight, a brilliant white disc lain over the autumnal landscape. The bird pulled its wings into its body, and dove towards the defensive wall that encircled the town. It was a creature of speed and grace and as such it navigated the narrow, tall streets with ease, searching for a morsel worth leaving the safety of the skies for. Instinct urged the animal to remain in the air, where it was at its most agile. But it needed to eat, now more so than ever if it was to survive not only the journey but also the winter as it edged further inland. And then suddenly it saw it, a scattering of discarded grain in the mud of a narrow back street. The bird circled, but saw no movement. Hesitantly, head bobbing constantly, trying to see all around, it settled onto the ground. Still it detected no movement, and after a moment settled down it its feast.

Leto pounced, catching the small creature between his hands and quickly snapping its neck. He was starving, and breathed a sigh of relief. The tension of holding his body still, of waiting for an animal any animal to spot the meagre scattering of grain he himself had discovered had pulled his nerves tight. Quickly he plucked the carcass before devouring it. His mind revolted against the softness of the raw flesh against his tongue, against the blood that dripped down his chin as he greedily swallowed the kill. But he needed to eat if he was to survive the winter and save his sister and mother.

His gruesome meal finished, Leto leaned his head back against the cool stone, trying to get his bearings. It was early morning on his third day in the walled city of Asariel. He pressed the back of his skull against the uneven brickwork in frustration, screwing his eyes tight. He could feel a great weight just below his consciousness, pulling him down into the darkness behind his eyes. Lips thin in concentration he bit back the sensation that he was somehow falling backwards, despite the brick behind him. Ever since haltingly leaving the forest he had had little control over these rolling waves of misery, unbidden and unwelcome, whenever his mind wandered from the immediate present. So he snapped his eyes open and concentrated on what he had learnt so far - which was, it seemed, extremely tenuous. There were still too many 'ifs' and unknowns, even after nearly half a week of questioning and searching. It had been difficult to gain any definite information; nothing in this fetid sinkhole made any sense to him.

Asariel was the first Tevinter city that he had ever set bare foot in, and thus far all it had given him were more questions, most of which had nothing to do with his sister or mother and everything to do with the humans that inhabited it. He had to decide today what he would do as he was not only running out of places to look and people to ask, but also wasting valuable time. The autumn was waning with alarming speed. The leaves were falling from the trees and at night, with no sun to drive it off, the cold descended in bitter jealousy, fingerprints of frost coving every surface in the morning, left as evidence of its intrusion. And now there was a nip in the morning air which gave warning that winter was growing braver, creeping further into the day with each passing sunrise. Leto had only the clothes he had been wearing the last night he had seen his sister, and, as practical as his tunic and leggings were, they were not standing up to the biting cold of Tevinter nights in autumn.

He had to decide if he would try to make it to the capital before the season took his choice from him. If he struck out for Minrathous too late there was a very real chance he would not survive the journey; if he made it to the capital and then discovered he was in the wrong city he would be forced to remain there until the spring. Whatever he did it seemed he was in danger of making the wrong decision, and despite all his detective work he had uncovered only the barest hope that his sister and mother were there.

He felt his throat constrict, and bit back yet another bout of tears. Leto had been working hard not to let his guilt overwhelm him, and in general was successful. It was only at night, when he fought against the biting cold, that desperation and grief took control from him. He tried hard not to remember the times when he had simply drifted to sleep, nuzzled by the gentle warmth of his clan, snuggled and safe under the woven canopy of the tent with the hiss and pop of the fire to lull him to sleep. During the day he was able to keep his mind on his task, but when he closed his eyes against the world, drawing his long thin legs up to his chest to try to block out the aching cold, his mind gave voice to his failure and betrayal.

Leto berated himself for allowing his emotions to overcome him. He had waited in this quiet place in order to eat and gather his thoughts so that a pivotal decision could be reached, and here he was fighting back tears again. He pushed his feelings down, wishing for a moment he could just let them go.. That the memory of the campsite could somehow be erased from his there was no way to remove the past. Instead, he played back the events of the last two days, hoping to spot some clue as to how to proceed.

oOo

He had spent his first day looking for the Alienage, working on the assumption that other elves would be more inclined than humans to help him. On first arriving in the city he had skulked towards the dirtier, poorer streets that clustered next to the outer fortification, assuming it would be here he would find the elven slum. Instead he had found only humans, though from the poverty and disease that circled those narrow streets and lean-to houses he may as well have been in an Alienage.

He had of course seen humans in poverty, drought and flood not paying the same attention to species as the other inhabitants of Thedas, but what he saw here was remarkable as it was almost solely a human experience. A few elderly or crippled elves were present, littering the streets with their hands out begging for scraps of food or clothing that as far as Leto could see never came, but in every other respect the people he saw here were human. It made no sense to him that a city, even one as small as this, would have relatively no elven presence. In every place he had been to, he had always been able to find some downtrodden community of elves etching out a living, but here there really seemed to be none. It certainly wasn't worth visiting the wealthier areas towards the centre of the walled-city, no elves would be there, only guards and humans, both of which Leto in his unarmed state hoped to avoid.

Unsure how to proceed in such an environment, he had found a quiet spot near to a small market and watched the to and fro, assessing the strange shanty town as best he could.

After a couple of hours of observation he had felt confident, despite his instinct to remain hidden and watchful, that if he were to approach one of these wrecks he would be in no danger. He had seen no guard patrol, and the people themselves had so far all been skinny and weak. A few had carried small knives or sickles, tools of their trade beyond the wall, but most appeared to be unarmed. And, he supposed, the truth was that even without a weapon he was in no danger from these degredated people. The usual advantages of their species - size, weight and resources - were clearly not in play here.

Drawing a deep breath, he had withdrawn from the shadow and walked as confidently as he could towards a small stall selling scrap metal. He had wanted to present himself as unafraid, as one who had a purpose in the slum, but it took only a moment for him to realise his mistake. Instead of being accept as a rightful visitor, all he did was attract attention to himself, all the hunched, broken figures that occupied the market immediately turning to watch this tall, fit and well fed elf walking high headed towards the iron monger Grampton's stall.

A small audience drew around the monger, hopeful of a little theatre to enliven their day, one joker at the back even beginning to hum the traditional Tevinter funeral rite. A few others joined in and Leto had found himself and the stall-keeper suddenly the centre of an expanding circle of gawping humans. Unsure how to proceed, he had remained silent, only his eyes moving as he assessed the group that now had him surrounded. He shifted his weight, tensing his body, unsure whether he would need to fight or of if he could outrun the mob. Grampton, terrified for his life, had however taken matters into his own hands, falling to his knees at Leto's feet and seeing fit to fill the silence with a stream of babble in a thick, barely recognisable accent.

"Wherefore thy come t'me Elf? I owe no Mage, who be thy mas'er that sent ye here to bleed me? Oh Lady, Lady save me afore this heathen devil! I have a daugh'er, m'laird, would thou not prefer t'slip yer sen in'ta her than yer mas'ers knife in'ta me? Oh Lady, Lady!"

Grampton now had the hem of Leto's tunic in his hands, flakes of skin catching up in the roughly spun wool as he wailed and cried at his belly, offering up prayers to the Maker and his daughter to the elf.

Horrified, Leto tried to disentangle the man from his clothes, but the more he struggled the tighter the human's grip became. As he tried in vain to separate himself without actually touching the man that held him, it became clear that all these people, the stall-holder included, thought he was here to carry out some kind of execution. He lifted in hands in supplication, and noted the human knelt in front of him flinch at the action while the crowd cooed.

"You misunderstand my purpose here, I have no-"

But the ramshackle audience began to cry out, jeering for Leto to murder the cowering vendor.

"Ye take axe ta' his head, knife-ear, as to what he sold ta' me, him promising tin were brass. 'twas as good ta' me as a Tantry cunt. Kill him a' be back ta' yon Mas'er!"

"Aye, tis truth spake here!"

"Draw thine 'tana elf as we see his blood afore the night!"

"Aye, blood! Bleed him!"

"No! No, You mistake me. I have no master, I am under no such orders. I wish only to ask him...any of you...some questions.. This is all. I am not here for blood."

Grampton fainted in relief, and the crowd laughed in delight at the dark stain creeping across the front of his trousers before mercifully going their separate ways, bemoaning the lack of bloodshed. Leto suddenly found himself standing, unnoticed and unimportant, with a piss soaked human at his feet and no closer to the answers he needed.

"Ye ought ta mark ye sen, knife ear. Tis nay good t'claim nae mas'er."

A figure detached itself from the shadow were it had been standing, watching the scene with interest. Leto was surprised to see a human woman approach him, unusually much shorter and thinner than he was. She must have been only about three or four years his senior, but she looked at least twice his age. He walked over to her, but as he drew closer she held up a black fingered hand to halt him. The air around her carried a sharp, sweet smell that stung his eyes.

"Ye din place ye sen twixt me and t'pox, knife ear."

"I.. I am sorry for your condition. It cannot be easy."

A gurgling, spluttering and above all _wet_ noise erupted from the woman, and Leto realised with revulsion that she was laughing at him.

"Aye, aye, tis not 'easy' as ye say. Cloddish knife ear, aint me ye should fret o'er. Wherefore spake ye have nae mas'er?"

Leto paused. He was angry and, deep inside him, frightened. This woman was obviously painfully poor and her accent so thick he was forced to quickly translate her words, despite his keen ears and knack for language. _Could she have ever left this shit-hole? How can she possibly have anything to say to me?_ As the fug of her disease drifted towards him, he was sorely tempted to give the market up as a bad lot and try somewhere else. But then something she had said caught his attention.

"What do you mean 'master'? It is true I have none, I work for none. Why should I be wary of the fact?"

The woman coughed heavily, a disturbing rattling sound emanating from her chest as she did so.

"Whence thou appear from, knife ear? Thou aint from Asariel. Set ye down, _laird Elf_, as I shall ken ye thine mas'er."

And so Leto had sat in the street while this woman had, with as minimal interruption as he could manage, explained to him why the slum was a human one, and why he should be cautious not to advertise his lack of ownership.

"You are telling me that the elves here are slaves?"

"Aye, and nae in Asariel alone, as ye will sen."

"You are mistaken!" Leto roared at the woman. Catching the rage in his voice, he tried to bite it back. "I have travelled to many distant cities and seen no evidence of slavery," he continued in a barely restrained whisper.

If his distress affected the young crone there was no sign of it. "Aye?" She regarded him slowly, her milky eyes staring him down. "Well, I cannae spake afore them heathen lands, but tis well and true here that ye Elven must nae be wit'owt a mas'er. Nary have I ken one fit and fine as thou that he ain't ben t'slave o' sum mage."

Rubbing the heels of his palms against his forehead Leto took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what he was being told. He had of course known that elves were in the eyes of most seen as little more than animals, but to be told that they were slaves? Leto's mind defied the notion. He buried his head in his hands, trying hard to distinguish fact from what he was hearing. It made sense that the elves would be second class here, because of course that was all they were in every human city. He had seen many examples of ill treatment during his time in Orlais, and on the occasions when they had had to deal with humans in Antiva. But he had never seen slavery; poverty, violence and disease many times over, but never the theft of freedom.

And yet the thought snuck into his mind that he could not account for the Imperium. The clan had shied from human contact whenever within the boundaries of Tevinter; Callum was the only human he could draw on to refute what he was now being told, and with a sense of dreadful certainty Leto considered his friend and some of his behaviour in light of this new knowledge.

The woman broke into his thoughts, her voice crackling across his horrified revelations like lightening, bringing him back to the present.

"Ah, I can see ye ken the truth o'it, elf. Tis the way of t'mages right enough. They takes all that they need fra ye, till all ye has left is blood, and then they takes that too." She looked off into the distance, lost in a memory. "Tis nae good to try'n fight thy laird."

He looked again at the woman who sat in the dirt next to him, her face clouded in an emotion he couldn't name and never wanted to experience, the extremities of her body mottled with dead flesh. Death hung at her side like a conciliatory lover, waiting for her to forgive him. Her time was short, and it occurred to him that if he were as lowly as she claimed it made no sense for her to be talking to him.

"How does telling me this benefit you?"

The human brought up another soggy, rattling bout of laughter, so hard her shoulders shook and her body shuddered. She began to gasp, gagging on her own amusement and just when Leto thought he would have to touch her, have to invade the distance she herself had insisted he keep in order to stop her suffocating, she regained her composure.

"Elf, yer question is good, profit t'is sought in mine tale t'ye. I have a task fer ye, if ye will take it."

"A task? What do you wish me to do?"

"I charge ye to take thy 'tana, and ta bleed my husband."

Leto kept eye contact. Detached, he watched himself consider her proposition, working out how he could bargain for his own benefit with the woman. Once the idea of such a cold blooded murder would have appalled him, but he watched himself now hear this proposal calmly and consider it as a possibility if it would help him achieve his aims. A part of him, lost and very alone in the strange new man he was becoming, asked why he wasn't walking away, why he wasn't censuring this woman and her hateful request. But then, a part of Leto that had always been protected had been exposed to the darkness of the world, and had perished in the revealing. And so it was not difficult for him to ignore the faint protests of the child he had until recently been.

"And why should I not simply walk away? I have little reason to trust a human, from all that I am learning about your kind."

"Tis nae humans, knife ear, tis the mages ye should fear. But ta ye askings.. In return for mine debt I shall furnish thee wit a mas'er, one as will treat thee whole, and nae fuck ye and bleed ye till there be nowt. Thou cannae ask f'more, knife ear."

Leto had stood then, anger pulling him to his feet.

"_Len'alas lath'din! _You know nothing of what I seek. Keep your master and your husband."

"Proud elf, thou surely ain't fra Asariel. A mas'er who will treat ye well is a fine reward for a dirty deed. Ye shall see tis true, in time."

Anger and disgust had taken him away from that woman as fast as he could without actually breaking into a run across the market. And yet, despite the noises that surrounded him, he had still been able to hear her phlegm soaked cackle chasing after him.

That night Leto had found a stable to sleep in, and had tried to make sense of what he had been told.

It was certainly true that since the human invasion hundreds of years ago the indigenous _Elvhen_ had been seen only as backwards savages in Thedas. Like fools they had welcomed the humans when they had arrived on their shores, traded with them and taught them about their land and gods. Their innocent interactions with the fathers and mothers of Tevinter had resulted in only loss for the elves. Now there was no city, no homeland nor lore in all Thedas that represented her original children. The humans had brought with them their magic, their language and the disease of mortality - or so the legends went. Leto had never paid much attention to the history of the people who had taken him in, and now he trawled through his memory trying to recall lessons that had seemed then to be designed only to underline how much he didn't belong.

Elvhenan, the original elven land that was now Antiva had fallen slowly to the growing Tevinter Imperium. But as the humans had spread out across the land, conquering and desecrating everything in their path, there had been some kind of unholy war. The humans had committed a great sin against the spirit world, and all - the elves included - had fought to undo the damage. After the first Blight, the elves had for a time been left in peace in their city of Arlathan.

What had happened next Leto had only a bare grasp of, but as far as his dappled knowledge could provide it had been the spread of the human monotheism of Andraste that had caused the last elven city to fall. There had been a crusade, an 'Exalted March' against them and their gods, that the humans had won yet again. These intruders were, and remained, larger in size, strength and number than the elves, and after their second defeat their culture had simply been frozen out of the modern world, and the city had died slowly and painfully, haemorrhaging its populace as more and more elves left for relatively better lives in the human cities.

Leto knew his kind had always been seen as inferior by the now dominant humans. Most treated the elves in the city as little more than skivvies, paying them to fill whorehouses, tan skins, cook and clean or work mines; the jobs all but the lowliest of humans felt too far below them to do themselves. Nowadays there was an unequal and uneasy relationship between humans and the elves. Some took pity on them, dropping coin into Chantry boxes for the upkeep of the Alienages, and a very few bothered to get to know them, to talk to them and understand them.

But despite the depth that his people had been driven to, they were not, had not been slaves. Slavery was.. it removed even the faintest acknowledgement that they were people, that they were more than beasts of burden. He thought of his sister, his mother.. Were they out there somewhere, a chain around their necks, scrubbing floors and cleaning.. servicing.. that bastard mage for no reason or payment except that he _owned_ them? _Please, oh dear Maker please don't let me have been such a fool, please don't let it be real._ Leto clung to this thin thread of hope as his drifted into the Fade, and back to his nightmares.


	13. Chapter 13

**9.20 Dragon**

**Asariel City, Tevinter**

Leto had awoken on his second day in Asariel as he had for the past week, rigid and tense. He didn't scream as the visions of his sleep become too horrific to bear, but he now always woke up sitting bolt upright, his breathing laboured and his body covered in sweat. The dreams themselves disintegrated with the arrival of the morning, as was the case for those without Ability in the Fade. What he was left with was not so much memories of the nightmares as a sense of how he had felt during them.

He sat for a moment, catching his breath and reorganising the events of the previous day. If he had not been alone, if someone else had survived the massacre of his clan and had been there with him, they might have noticed changes in the elf, some stark and some subtle. This invisible comrade would, perhaps, have commented on the way Leto now held himself. His eyes were constantly moving, watching the world around him. His toned body was constantly held arrow straight and gave off the sensation of a trap wire: held tense but ready to snap. If they had known him well, as so few had, they may also have risked asking him if he was alright, how he was holding up under the pressure of his loss. Although he had always been quiet, always watchful and separate from the world, it had been a separation made of diffidence, of a feeling of being in some way unworthy to join in with the lives of those around him. Now his silence and his vigilance were of distrust, of ferocity and wrath. The subtle changes to the line of his mouth, the movement of his head and how he stood and ran his fingers over his cropped hair, the set of his shoulders all belied the deeper changes within him.

If he had had a friend in the world, they would have been very deeply worried about him.

Leto decided that the only thing he could do was to risk venturing into the richer part of the city to try to find news about Callum, and to see if there was any truth in what the woman had told him the day before. This was not a happy solution, as it might mean drawing more attention to himself and if, against all hope, Callum was still in the city this could cause him to flee. Yet it seemed he had little choice. He had to know if his suspicions were right, if his family were alive and if the mage had taken them. And then there was the matter of the slavery. Leto had tossed and turned during the night, worrying over what the woman had said. But in the morning, as he had sat in the fetid, grassy atmosphere of the stable he had considered her words more calmly. Once the initial shock and disbelief had worn away, he found himself assessing the possibility of slavery as potentially beneficial if Callum had taken Varania and Aryion as slaves it was likely they were still alive and with him. It seemed that all he needed to do was find Callum.

Asariel was not large. Really, it was more of a hold than a city and it had taken Leto only forty minutes or so of walking before he began to notice the shift away from the poverty of the day before. The roads widened and, alarmingly, the number of alleyways began to dwindle, forcing him further out into the streets. The dirt and muck beneath his feet hardened into cobblestones, a sensation he found oddly disquieting. He was used to the feel of earth on his bare soles and now, with the hard stone pressing against his feet in uncomfortable and unexpected ways, he felt further away from home than he could bear. He also couldn't fail to notice that along with the increase in modern amenities like troughs and gutters there had also been a growing number of elves on the streets, tarrying around on what seemed to be urgent business. The humans he saw were also conspicuous, though not for their industry. They were almost all dressed very finely and looking for all Thedas an entirely different species from those he had encountered the day before.

He viewed them with quiet disinterest, wondering only vaguely if they knew of Callum. It would not help him to ask a human for aid, least of all these. Even if they were not in general unsympathetic, it was unlikely they would lower themselves to speak with him. He quietly bemoaned the lack of any other minority species in the city; if he had seen a dwarf, or if the elves themselves had not been dashing around fulfilling their own urgent purpose, he could have risked revealing himself to question them. But humans were too untrustworthy to risk dealing with. He would have to keep surveying, until he found someone suitable to interrogate.

Conscious of his previous mistakes, he fell back on his training as a hunter, letting himself blend into the hustle and bustle around him. He took his time, listening and observing. There was no alley to hide in, but after an hour or so of skirting the walls and corners of the wide thoroughfares he had managed to find an inn with a canvas awning that offered shade in which to safely monitor the city, looking for someone suitable to answer his questions. After only a few minutes of quiet observation however a human child, a boy, had run out of the inn and straight up to him. Leto glanced at the child but saw no danger there; the boy could have only seen five or six winters and there was no sign of a parent following.

Suddenly Leto's lower legs exploded in a burst of pain. Caught unprepared the elf fell on his front, aware only of the continuing eruptions of agony that were breaking out along his legs, buttocks and back. He rolled over, only to receive another sting lash across his chest. The child had in his hand a sturdy stick with five or six lengths of leather tied off of one end, with which he now without pause used to deliver short stinging blows to Leto's thighs, stomach and chest. Anywhere that the lashes made contact was instantly enveloped in sharp, throbbing pain.

"You're not welcome here my father won't have stolen goods on his property now get going or I'll call and then you'll be in trouble! Go! Go! Go!"

This tirade was delivered in one breath at the top of the boys lungs and, despite his strength and size, Leto found himself quickly shuffling away from the hellion as it continued to lash out at him, all the while calling him a beast and an animal and stolen. Once out from under the awning however the small boy seemed to lose interest in the elf, his task now apparently completed to his satisfaction, and instead set about picking at a scab on his forearm.

Leto was completely at a loss. His legs, stomach and back were a mess of throbbing cuts. He pulled himself to his feet, biting back the urge to reach across from the street and snap the boy's neck. Drawing deep breaths to calm himself, flexing his hands to stop them balling into fists he approached the child, who now seemed to have turned his relentless anger onto his own elbow. He looked around him, but no one appeared to have noticed his humiliating beating, or if they had they didn't care. Grasping his opportunity, he spoke in a low voice to his mini-tormentor.

"I would like to ask you a question. May I do so?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to stolen things."

Leto knelt painfully down, bringing himself to eye level with the little boy. "Does that mean you will not speak to me, or only that you should not? I promise not to enter your inn again. See? I remain on the streets." Leto smiled his rare smile at the boy, extending out his arms in an overly formal gesture to highlight his position crouched in the street. The boy giggled, but kept the whip between himself and the elf.

"Why do you say I am stolen?"

The boy pursed his lips, his busy fingers now engaged in the task of picking his nose while he thought of a reply.

"Coz a few weeks ago a load of slaves were taken from the cart and at first my dad thought they'd runned away but now he thinks they were stolen coz if they were runned away then Cassius wouldn't have so much Blighted money that's what my dad says and anyway you haven't got any bindings on you and everyone knows that elves should have bindings so where're yours?"

Leto silently repeated what he had just heard, making sense of the boy's rushed answer. "I.. Lost my bindings?" he suggested slowly, as if he might be able to sneak to idea up on the boy before he could notice it. Unfortunately, like most young children, this one was adept at noticing the wiles of adults.

"Well, I don't see how you could have. Your master would have corrected you for it, and anyway they would have given you new ones." He regarded Leto with a steady gaze. "Why are you trying to trick me? I can call my father you know. He's just inside."

There wasn't a threat that Leto could detect in what the boy said, more that this was one of many different possibilities of how the future could transpire and that, it occurred to him, he had no control at all over which eventually took hold. He was entirely at the mercy of a grubby, snotty little child with a whip. Leto managed to keep his smile plastered across his face.

"Yes, well. You, young man, are so sharp you might cut yourself-"

"-That's what my mum says-"

"-Really? She sounds an extraordinary adroit woman. Can you tell me what these bindings look like? So that I might find mine?"

The boy regarded him slowly, finger switching from nostril to mouth as he did so. It seemed for a minute that he wouldn't buy into the game, but suddenly he relaxed, pleased at the chance to show off to a grown-up, even a stolen one.

"Well, ok. Cassius, that's the man my dad says is a Blighted fool and should be thrown on the next ship to Seheron, Cassius' slaves got to wear a necklace type thing", the boy wrapped his hands around his neck to show what he meant, "and Batiatus, he burns them with a B right here," the boy pointed to his forearm, "which is for Batiatus and Livia she makes them wear purple coz she likes purple and my dad can't afford to buy one but if he did he'd have ones with grapes cut in them coz that's the name of our inn but anyway, the thing is you don't look like anything really. You're all in dirty and got leaves on you," here the boy regarded Leto's worn out clothes, "and you're all mussed up. It's obvious no one owns you because you look rubbish."

"Thank-you for explaining that to me." Leto said in a sing-song voice, conscious of needing to keep the little monster on side for his next, crucial question: "My.. Master.. Is in fact a Mage here named Callum. Do you know him?"

"No."

Leto felt his heart sink. Everything he did turned to dust in this place, and now to top it all off he had been beaten, insulted and outwitted by a child whose most common conversation topic before today must surely have consisted of "leave that alone" and "take you finger out of there".

"But the Mage family lives on Auliven Way with all the richerest people. Everyone knows that."

Leto actually gawped at the little boy, unable to believe this sudden change in his luck. If it hadn't been for the presence of the whip and the overall stickiness of the child he may even have hugged him. As it was the boy stated matter of factly, "My mum says that if you keep your mouth open like that you'll swallow a fly. But I've never swallowed a fly. Have you?"

"Um. No. Well. Many thanks young serah. I shall move on now."

The boy shrugged, and tottled back into the inn. Leto stood straight, trying to decide how best to find this street where the Mages lived. He couldn't read the road signs, but it seemed to him likely that this Auliven Way would be located further towards the centre of the city, away from the dangers of the wall and the slums. He also reasoned that, if it was commonly known to be one of the nicer streets - perhaps even the best - he should be able to notice the general increase in wealth that would be associated with such a place._ I am a hunter,_ he assured himself,_ I can listen and observe until I am in the correct place, it won't take long._

oOo

Four hours and much cursing later he was roughly sure he had found the right place.

He had been expecting to find more richly dressed humans, of the sort he had seen in the middle ring of the town. Yet, as he had ventured further towards the centre the number of humans had dwindled while there had been a definite increase in elves. Bizarrely, Leto actually found it easier to walk these central streets as he became just another so-called 'knife ear'. He was perhaps a little taller, and his lightly tanned skin stood out as much here as in the clan, but no one seemed to care if he was out of the ordinary. Even his clothes, the central point of derision earlier, were not among the tattiest he saw, though he had to acknowledge that the majority of the elves he saw here were clean and neat if not finely dressed.

Walking up and down the street, he tried to discern some kind of key as to which could be Callum's, but each tall, thin building was much like its neighbour. Leto swore under his breath, silently appalled at the lack of magic related paraphernalia; there was no blue smoke rising from the chimneys, no piles of used up newts outside the narrow wooden doors, nothing to help him guess which house was the one he required.

He was loathe to try to speak with one of the elves, having had such poor luck so far in his dealings with the inhabitants of Asariel. He was also beginning to realise he had no idea what he would do if and when he did find the right residence. The idea of simply knocking on the door and asking for Callum to come out was not appealing. He had been mulling over breaking in and looking for some clue as to where the mage, and hopefully his sister and mother, were, but this seemed now impossible. Not only was he dirty, but he was now also covered in welts from the whip and as much as the other elves didn't seem to pay him any attention, he felt that were he to be found within a house in his current state it would be impossible for him to talk his way out, and without a weapon he knew he wasn't sure he would be able to fight, not if there were many standing against him.

In addition to these concerns, he didn't even know which house to break in to. He had expected Callum's house to be a grand, sprawling thing; in reality, the houses along the street were all kind of stuck together. Leto had never seen terraces before, and couldn't understand how the houses fixed together, where one ended and another began. If he had been more experienced he would have realised that he could have walked around to the back of the long line of houses and found the slaves' entrances. He could in fact have easily walked into any of the houses on the street with very little chance of detection, trying each until he found what he needed. The chances of any of the inhabitants paying him the slightest bit of attention, even bloodied as he was, was remote. However, Leto didn't know any of this, and instead found himself pacing up and down on the unfamiliar cobbles, growing more and more frustrated as the sun sank lower. There was nothing for it; he would have to risk speaking to one of the elves.

Bracing himself for another long and agonising conversation, he walked up to a young elven man about his age who was industriously scrubbing the white stone steps that led up to one of the doors of the houses. Leto had expected the boy to stop his task as he approached, but even when he was standing fully next to the other elf, he continued to work at the stone. His pale hands were red and Leto, ever the watcher, noticed that there were small blisters running along the boy's fingers. Nether the less, the slave continued in his task, dipping the rough brush into a bucket of cold, soapy water before transferring it to the stone. Up, down, up, down he pushed the brush. When the bubbles had all disintegrated back it went into the bucket. Leto must have stood over the boy's shoulder, hypnotized by this monotonous diligence for fully a minute before coming back to his senses. Unsure how to draw the boy's attention, for he must have surely felt Leto standing over him, he coughed lightly. The boy continued to ignore him.

"Excuse me..?.."

Up, down, up, down went the thick flat brush, the boy putting all his weight behind each thrust.

"Could you please.. I need to.. Hello?.. Can you hear- will you just STOP!"

Leto grabbed the boy's shoulder violently, pulling him around so that they were face to face. The elf glared at him, before shrugging him off and returning to his task. Leto thought for a minute, and then tried speaking to the elf again, this time in Orlesian. Up, down, up, down. Then in Antivan and then in the Elvish, but if the boy had understood anything there was no sign of it. It was as if Leto didn't exist. Exasperated, he switched back to Tevinter but tried Arcanium, the dialect Callum and the child had used.

There was in fact little difference between the two languages; it was more a case of accent and vocabulary than grammar, but the moment the first words left his lips the other elf froze. He quickly, carefully placed the brush on the step before raising himself up in one graceful, fluid movement to stand in front of Leto. Although he kept his head bowed in a seemly relaxed manner, Leto could see his body was rigid with tension. Once again, he found himself becoming exasperated with the other elf. He couldn't understand why he wouldn't look him in the eye, or why he was clearly frightened out his wits. Leto then remembered the reaction of the market seller the day before, and reached out awkwardly to touch to boy, to try and set him at ease. The other didn't flinch or shudder, and yet in some imperceptible way Leto understood that if he had felt able to he would have flung Leto's hand from his arm as if it were a poisonous snake. Leto brought his hand back to his side.

"I do not wish to hurt you," Leto said softly and slowly, "I only wish to ask you a question." The boy's head remained dipped, but he didn't pull away or return to his task. Leto ploughed on, a sense of weariness creeping over him. _I cannot leave without getting some answer from him, but why is he so afraid of me? Why is everyone here, except the blasted child, so terrified?_ Something was deeply wrong with this city. "I am looking for a mage named Callum. I have reason to believe he has taken my sister and my mother. I wish only to know if he remains in Asariel, or if he has moved on to Minrathous. Or, perhaps, another city."

At the mention of Varania and Aryion the boy had lifted his head, a slight frown marring his smooth forehead. He looked Leto up and down, studying him as he finished his speech. Once Leto had stopped talking, the boy knelt again on the stoop, dipping his hand into the bucket of soapy water. Leto opened his mouth to yell at the elf when he saw what the boy was doing. He had found a spot of dry marble and, his finger soaked in water, was covering the stone in lines and dashes, glancing up at Leto as he did so. Leto suppressed his frustration, his already deep voice dropping lower as he spoke through gritted teeth, "I cannot understand those markings. I do not read."

For his own part the boy looked as annoyed with Leto as Leto was with him. Getting back to his feet, he opened his mouth, showing Leto the empty space where his tongue should have been. Leto stared. The boy closed his mouth with a 'pop' and regarded Leto's horror matter of factly.

"Who did this to you?"

The elf rolled his eyes, then tilted his head towards the house.

"You are a slave?"

Nod.

"Then it's true..?"

The boy sighed heavily and returned to his chore. He was clearly being accosted by a lunatic, albeit one who spoke the Master's language. The madman rumbled another question, asking if the mage was his Master.

Shake of the head. Not my Master.

Did he know where the mage had gone?

A shrug. Perhaps.. There has been gossip, rumours.

Minrathous?

Tilt of the head, a smaller shrug. Maybe. This is what I've heard.

A thank-you, and then a pause. Is he going to touch me again? Why won't he just leave?

Leto had looked at the boy. He wanted to do something, but he didn't know what. The space where the boys tongue should have been had been an empty cavern, which meant that the muscle had not been removed by a knife. Leto had filleted and dressed meat, and the clan had used everything they had been able to. There should have been some kind of residual stump where the tongue had been cut, but there had been nothing, only teeth and the soft pink wetness of the boy's pallets. Leto contemplated taking the boy with him. But then he reconsidered, and after a moment more of watching the slave at his task, he turned on his heel and walked away. The brush continued, up, down, up, down.

oOo

That had been yesterday. Now in the early light of his third day, Leto pulled himself from the wall he was leaning on, running the back of his hand across his bloodied mouth and chin. He only had one option. He would strike out for Minrathous. However, the winter was drawing in and he knew he wouldn't make the journey in his current state; he needed warm clothes, food and supplies and there was only one way he could think of to get them. He would return to the slums to try and strike a deal with the woman he had met there.


	14. Chapter 14

**9.20 Dragon**

**Cassandra's Shack, Asariel City**

Cassandra shifted position on the threadbare rug in order to get a better view of the elf as he paced across her one room home.

She regarded Leto in much the same way that a farmer would his prize sheep if it suddenly pulled out a deck of cards and challenged him to a game - to say she had been surprised to see him again was to miss an opportunity to use the word 'flabbergasted'. Maker knew what had happened to him during the time since she had met him in the market, but when he had approached her that morning she could have forgiven herself for thinking he had been six months in the Legion. He had been bloodied, dirty and had stunk of horse shit - quite a cry from the proud creature that had stormed away from her not thirty hours before, determined to believe that white was black.

And yet despite his dishevelled appearance he had still managed to catch the breath in her throat, and she had been more than willing to listen when he had gruffly demanded they talk terms. Like many, she was not immune to the earthy, animal features of the elves; she smiled, and thought that though the body may currently be unwilling, the mind can still play. He was _wonderful_. So tall, so healthy and vital - a very different beast from those she had seen so far in her life. And he looked so young; although she did consider the chance he may be older than she was, she doubted it. Elves may well age more slowly than humans, but this one exuded youth and ignorance. She supposed he would look much the same in his forties or even fifties as he did now. _Nae grey hairs would mar himself, unlike I_, she thought as she watched him stalk forwards and backwards across the short length of the room.

His long powerful legs barely took three strides to reach each bare stone wall, and still he seemed unable to stop moving. It was like watching a rat in a barrel, scurrying around ever hopeful of finding an escape_. Yet nae matter how hard rat will search, dog will always be placed in t'barrel with him._ She wondered, as Leto drank her wine, if he really understood where he was and what his future held. Watching him now, drunk as much on bitterness as the draught she had provided him, she found she was able to silence her self-reproach. With such a creature as this the axe was as much a mercy as the tincture.

Cassandra knew that, unless her plan came to fruition, she would soon be at the Maker's side. A tight smile stretched across her face as she realised she could still enjoy the lies of her childhood. _The Maker_. Whether He existed or not, Cassandra held no hope that she would make it that far when her time finally came, but if she were to die now she would rather not have the stain of the elf's death on her soul. Though, as she looked at the lithe, strong figure that now dominated the tiny space, she felt confident that her death would be delayed – at least, if he didn't drink himself into a stupor before night fell.

"Elf, thy gut had best be as strong as thy arm, or else ye will nae be standing for much longer. Tisn't Tanty water thou be swilling."

Leto halted in his incessant pacing and stared at the bottle in his hand, almost as if he had forgotten it was there. He looked up into Cassandra's weathered face, his green eyes blinking owlishly at her as he tried to focus. The hovel was dark, and despite the fact that just beyond the door the sun was high, within there was only the gloomy light of one short fat candle to see by. As a result, in addition to the cold, clammy air, it was difficult even for his large eyes to see. Though the half bottle of sweet sticky liquid in his hand may also have been a factor in his current impairments. He waved the bottle at the human, but she shook her head. Placing it with the deliberate care of the drunk on the makeshift table next to her bedroll, he sat heavily on the only other piece of furniture to grace the room, a small shipping barrel that had once contained tea leaves. Strange, misshapen shadows flickered and danced across the walls, as if a the spirits of the Fade were waiting to see the outcome of Leto's story.

"I can still perform your task."

She looked at him. The wavering light of the candle did nothing to soften the hard expression he wore, nor the dead tone in his voice. She had chosen well. Here was someone who had given up on his life, and as an elf would not be missed were he to suddenly disappear. Her choice was sound, but she was increasingly aware that the boy in front of her may not be.

"Aye, maybe ye can; but there are enough piss-soaked knife ears on the streets if'n I wanted them. The deal struck betwixt us only stands if ye can perform thy task."

"I have killed before, woman." Leto fudged, managing to only slightly slur his words. "And I will kill again."

"Then wherefore has my wine disappeared down thy throat so quick?"

A musty silence settled between the elf and the woman. Leto could pick up the distant sounds of the Asariel humans living their lives, meagre as they were. In the hazy fog of alcohol he remembered the times when the clan had celebrated together; there had always seemed to be something to be grateful for, a birth or a wedding – even on more than one occasion a large kill he himself had brought in. He had often sat by the large bonfire in the centre of the ring of tents, listening to the shouts and ringing laughter of his people. He had enjoyed those moments, sat peacefully cocooned in the warmth of the others' happiness, listening to the theatre of their lives play out around him. He had wished he could join them, but had never known how to.

He thought of his mother, for once smiling and clapping her hands with his step-father behind her, arms wrapped around her to keep her safe from her fears. The vision of Aryion blurred into one of his sister dancing. He remembered the way she would giggle and caper with the other girls, her red hair floating around her shoulders, her pale skin warmed from the heat of the fire and exercise. There had been another girl once too, with light toffee coloured hair and hazel eyes. His unfocused mind remembered her swaying towards him. She had softly pressed her lips to the side of his face.. He hadn't known how to respond to her, but she had taken his hand in her own and led him, showing him what he should do. At the time he had been embarrassed and excited, his perfect skin pink as she had run his hand over her breasts and then, slowly, placed it between her legs. He remembered now how it had felt to be close to someone, and he cursed his arrogance and stupidity that he had believed that the solitary thrill of the hunt was better than the joy of feeling another person's touch on his skin, the feeling of being inside someone who trusted him and wanted him. He reached again for the wine.

"If you are so concerned about my ability why did you give the drink to me?"

Cassandra let loose her wet, gulping laugh, shattering the gloom that had filled the room. "A fair question, knife ear. In truth I felt ye may need the strength o'it but I ken thee has nae need. Drink it if ye will, but be sure ye can still find arse from elbow when t'times comes."

"Tell me.. Tell me why you wish your husband dead."

"If ye can bleed him, elf, it will heal me. Ye cannae claim ye have nae sighted my health? Aye, I thought as not" she added as Leto nodded curtly in response, "Well, tis the will o'that man that Death sits so close to me now. If'n Death can be sated elsewhere my freedom will be bought. Now tell me wherefore you came back t'me this morn."

A pause. "I need supplies."

"Ye ken that were not my meaning, elf."

Leto looked up from examining the knots in the floorboards. The woman opposite him was truly wretched, her dying wish to be brought a knife stained with her husband's blood. In his naivety he couldn't imagine how someone so obviously broken down in their body could pose any threat. He had not been exposed to the hidden cruelties and desires that spun the world; his had been a life of natural honesty, of life and death and family. Each time he had run his sword through the pelt of an animal, he had been close to it, had seen into its eyes and grasped it as it drew its final breath. He had never, until Varania had acknowledged her relationship with the mage, been faced with the vagaries, deceptions or lusts that others kept hidden, and was still used to judging the world of people as he judged the world of nature. Under these terms, Cassandra could not hurt him.

"I need to reach Minrathous before winter. There is a man there who .. he was once a friend of mine." Leto let out a mirthless laugh, soaked in hostility and wine, "Suffice to say, this is no longer the case."

Cassandra considered this information, adding it what she herself had surmised about the boy. Her gaze travelled the tense silhouette of the elf that sat opposite her; there was anger and pain within him, simmering below the surface. She wondered how he managed to keep his rage subdued, when it was so clear he was consumed by it - she could she the beast within him, prowling the length of him, keeping him wound tight and ready to strike.

He lifted the bottle again to his lips, his large eyes closed as he swallowed. She watched the movement of his throat as he gulped, and prayed she had not overplayed her hand. He was strong; she could see that in the muscles than ran along his lean arms, the strength in his slender thighs and, when he lifted the bottle to drink, there was the shadow of his taught midriff against his tunic. He might have the slender build of his kind, but his body at least was sturdy enough. Then again, so was the alcohol, and at this point she couldn't be sure which would be the victor. She wondered if he might have taken the herbs she had hidden within the strong drink without the deception, but the risk of him refusing had been too great. _Chance a mistake were made in my dosage though. _Too late now; she had dealt her hand, and would have to see if it was enough.

"Ye spake o' a lover?"

Leto stared, his face a mask of incomprehension before realisation dawned. He snarled at her, slamming the bottle onto the barrel next to him. "Rest assured, woman, I will never love a human, least of all a mage. How much longer must we wait here? What is the point in this.. in these questions?"

"Still your anger, save it for ye task. We wait for night, tis all. If ye wish we can wait in silence, tis nae matter t'me. Ye understand the role ye must fulfill for me? It must be done as I have told, ye ken?"

"I understand. And you will fulfill your end of the bargain?"

"Aye. Aye, that I will. I will set ye to Minrathous, fret ye not."

o0o

Night finally arrived, and a slightly less groggy Leto left Cassandra and made his way towards the centre of the city. He found himself in a new crescent of terraced houses, but this time he understood how to gain entry. The alcohol had mostly worn off, yet there was still a cloud of fuzziness behind his eyes. He felt a mild pang of alarm, but he trusted himself to be able to perform the task of killing an old man without necessarily being at his finest. He didn't allow himself to dwell on what he was about to do; in the eyes of his people he would be a murderer. But his people were dead, weren't they? He supposed he shouldn't have accepted the drink in the first place, least of all without knowledge of what it was. But when the woman had offered it, he had found himself desperate for its numbing influence.

Luckily for the elf, his body was more than capable of looking after itself. He had for years trained himself to track and to hunt, and now thousands of hours of expertise came to his aid. His muscles working under their own direction, he ducked around to the back of the houses, his bare feet taking him softly to the required door. He found he was easily able to slip into the building unnoticed, and once inside the hustle and bustle below stairs swept him along. None of the slaves paid him any attention, and he realised in these basement quarters he had no need to sneak around. It seemed strange to him that no one took note of his presence, especially given his obvious differences from the other elves. It was another of the realities that Aryion had tried to spare him from: what point was there is learning to recognise a face when at any moment it could be snatched away, as if it had never existed?

He could feel the cold steel of the dagger Cassandra had given him against his thigh. Leto had tried to explain to her he had little experience with such a weapon, but she had insisted it must be done with this blade or not at all. She had said she had faith him. He wished he felt the same way; as he crept nearer to his mark he found his confidence continue to waver. He slowly climbed the narrow staircase up to the main part of the house, trying to ignore the paintings that decorated the walls, the little nick-nacks that spoke of the life he intended to end. Cassandra had talked him through the layout, and like most non-readers Leto's memory was good. He could hear her directions now in his head, and crept silently through the hallways and up another two flights of stairs, until he was on the correct floor. There had been fewer elves the further up the house he had climbed, and now this floor appeared deserted. Cassandra had said it would be so; once night fell the slaves kept to the lower levels, ironing and darning clothes, cleaning pots and pans, all the little tasks their days were too busy to complete.

There were four doors, two on each side of the hall. Cassandra had predicted that her husband's room would be facing away from the avenue below in order to avoid the early morning clattering of the milk and bread carts as they made their deliveries. That meant his room would be one of the two on the left. Slowly Leto padded across the floorboards, unconsciously slowing his breathing, welcoming the familiar sensation of adrenaline and excitement as it washed over him. Brutal as it was, this was something he knew, something he could finally recognise and put a name too.

He placed his hand on the unfamiliar door knob, turning it the way Cassandra had shown him. The door clicked, and he gently pushed it. With his other hand he felt for the handle of the knife, slowly pulling it from beneath the thin leather belt that looped around his narrow hips. As the door swung softly inwards, he turned the dagger in his hands so that the blade was twisted away from him, ready to strike. The chamber was washed in the muted blue light of the moon. It was a large room, larger than he had expected from the narrow hallways he had seen so far. He automatically scanned the space for any threats, but there were none - the room was bare, bar some kind of ornate dresser and a strange woven basket, securely fixed to what looked to him to be a solid wooden chest. He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. The glow from the moon through the window lit the room well enough for him to see by, and he moved towards the basket. Curiously, he wondered what these humans would keep in a whole room by itself. Knife in hand, he leant over to see what was inside.

The baby was sleeping peacefully, it's small, fat hands rested on either side of its head, which itself was turned away from the door. Leto gazed down at the infant. Like a statue, he watched as the tiny chest lifted and fell. The babe was in the Fade, its pink mouth occasionally pursing as it pursued its dreams. Not knowing why, he hesitantly reached towards the child with his free hand, and gently rested it on its fluttering middle. He closed his eyes and allowed the gentle pressure of the baby's breathing to raise and drop his hand. The room didn't smell of babies, or at least of the smell he had learnt to associate with them. For him, babies smelled of the herbs and spices used to bathe them and keep them clean. They smelled of their mothers and fathers, their sisters and brothers, of the Halla and the smoke from the fire. They smelled of _life, _of the clan that they came from. This room smelled only of a faintly powdery aroma he couldn't place and of the varnish on the floorboards and the paint that covered the dresser. The baby stirred under his palm, and he reluctantly pulled his hand away. He turned and left the room, carefully pulling the door to as he did so.

Back in the hall, Leto thought quickly. A baby meant a mother, something he had not been told to expect. Cassandra had implied that only her husband would be in residence on these upper floors, but either she was mistaken or she had lied. He hefted the dagger in his hand, judging the weight and strength of it. If the man was old, as Cassandra had said, and if the woman was an inexperienced fighter, as was likely, he should still be able to complete his task and secure the supplies he needed.

So resolved he approached the second door, and again slowly turned the handle and pushed it inwards. This time he found himself in much more opulent surroundings. A thick-pile rug spread across the floor and underneith the large, silk canopied bed which dominated the centre of the room. On the left of him was another dresser, and opposite him a window. By the luck of the Maker it had been left unlocked, and he darted past the bed to look down to the garden below. The drop was not small, but he felt that, if he landed well, he would make it unharmed.

He walked towards the bed. The silk fluttered lightly in the breeze from the window, and Leto silently cursed. He would need to pull the thin curtains aside in order to gain entry to the bed. This could mean nothing of course, or it could wake one or both of the humans he expected to find there. He thought back to the instructions he had been given. Cassandra had been very explicit, bordering on the point of patronage. The dagger - and only the dagger - had to be plunged into the man's heart, and he had to die instantly. Leto had questioned this - why risk the attempt by pushing the blade through the tough bone and cartilage of the chest when he could aim for the stomach or throat? The woman had been clear in her response: it must go through the heart, and he must die; do not let him feed off his blood. Leto had no idea how an old man with a knife in his gut might 'feed' off his own blood, but he had recognised the seriousness of the warning and intended to follow her instructions. However, if there were another person sharing his bed, he needed to make sure he killed the old man first, to ensure his end of the bargain was completed.

Listening closely at the curtain at the foot of the bed, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Eleven ears were by human standards exceptionally gifted, and Leto had spent the better part of his life training his to perfection. He could indeed hear two sets of gentle breathing; one, on the window side, had a slight rattle to it, as if the breather's lungs were in some way blocked or impaired. Carefully and quietly Leto snuck around the edge of the covered bed to where he had heard the laboured breathing.

Now was the moment. He remembered the words of his sister.. She had called him an animal, a wild dog. _If I kill these people, that is what I will be. All my life I have been.. I have felt different, unelven. If I do this I will be turning my back on everything I was taught. _He thought of his mother, and his sister, and finally of Callum. He remembered the smell of burning meat, and the sight of his step-father's body on the charred land that had been his home. _Everything I was taught is gone. _

In one sudden movement Leto pulled the canopy down, the thin material tearing in his grip, and reached down, placing his free hand over the mouth of the old man who lay in front of him. His eyes bulged above Leto's palm and the elf could feel his quick, panicked breath against his skin. He readjusted the weight of the dagger, and swiftly and precisely brought it down to the hilt into the man's chest. There was a moment of resistance as the blade hit bone, but Leto instinctively adjusted his stance, pushing the knife downwards until it found the heart. It was over in less than a second. The man shuddered against him, his eyes rolling back in his head as blood began to bubble up from the wound. For a moment everything was calm. Leto stood still, feeling the familiar warmth of the blood as it ran over the hand that still clenched the dagger. The world was, for once, blissfully quiet and recognisable.

A great pressure suddenly and unexpectedly crippled the elf. The pain was indescribable, like a being trapped under a great boulder or beneath a hundred fathoms of chocking water. Leto could feel the air being forced from his lungs, the weight of his own muscle and skin being rammed against his bones. He couldn't move, there was no way he could fight the force that seemed to encircle him from all sides, pressing inwards, choking him. And yet there was nothing surrounding him, nothing in the room had changed. He remained leant over the cooling body, one hand over its mouth and the other around the handle of the blade that protruded from its chest.

Leto forced his eyes to the right of the body and saw her. The mother. She was sat up, looking directly at him. Her hands were working the familiar dance of spell-casting, her face screwed up in concentration as she channelled all her energy into the crushing prison that now engulfed him. Leto felt his ribs begin to crack. Deep red and blue bruises were forming along his arms, legs and torso as his body suffered what his eyes couldn't see. Black and yellow spots began to hover in his vision as the compression of his skull continued to build. He could feel himself dropping out of consciousness.

Then, from a thousand miles away, he heard a noise.. like a siren's call.. high and urgent and impossible to ignore. _The baby_. Immediately the weight was lifted from his body as the mother lost concentration. It was only for a second that her attention faltered, her maternal instinct drawing her concentration from the magic she was weaving, but it was enough. Leto sprang from his position above her dead lover, landing fully on top of her. Although not heavily built, he was muscled and the weight of his landing on her caused the woman's head to jolt backwards, hitting the headboard of the bed. Leto grabbed her neck in his hands and squeezed. The woman lashed out at him, scrabbling against him.

Had he been at his full strength he would have easily beaten her, but he was injured and groggy and she was relentless. She kicked at his back with her knees, hitting his tender kidneys and knocking him off her. She continued to hit and claw at him, while he tried in vain to shield himself from her fevered self-preservation. They twisted and turned over and under each other, the silk curtains that had insulated the bed now tangling around them, ripping and tearing as they both fought for advantage. With luck she managed to catch the side of his face with her long, decorated nails, tearing at the skin across his eye. Leto pulled back instinctively and she punched him hard in the stomach, expelling what little air he had been able to regain. She hit him again and again, her small fists raining down on his chest, face and abdomen in short, localised bursts of pain, desperate sobs escaping her as she did so.

Leto grabbed her shoulders and brought his forehead sharply against her face, feeling the crack of bone against bone as he made contact. The blow left his ears ringing, but he had been expecting it – she had not. Dazed, she stared at him, blinking slowly as blood ran from her swollen nose. Leto still had her shoulders in his hands. He quickly grabbed her arms, holding her tight to stop her casting again. Without thought or pause, he smacked her head hard into the headboard behind her. Once, twice, three times.. Again and again he clouted her into the hard wood, only aware of the roar of his anger and the blood pumping through his veins.

It was the cries of the baby that brought him to his senses. The screaming, gulping sobs of the infant cut through his madness and wrath, and he suddenly came to. The woman in his arms was little more than a rag doll, her crushed head lolling uselessly on her shoulders. Leto dropped the body as if it burned him. He looked quickly around the room, trying to remember why he was here and what had happened. He could hear footfall in the distance: the slaves rushing up the stairs to find out why the baby was crying, why the mother or father weren't attending to it. He had to get out of here. He jumped from the bed, darting quickly to the window. The footsteps were louder now, and he heard the sound of a door being flung open. Frantic voices assured each other that the child was alright. It was a matter of moments before they came into this room, but Leto was at the open window, he would make it; when suddenly he saw the dagger sticking out of the dead man's chest.

The handle of the door began to slowly turn, as if the opener dreaded what might be on the other side and didn't want to rush their entry. Leto dived from the sill, rolling as he hit the ground. He landed on his knees by the bed, pulled the blade from the body and rose to his feet at the same moment the door creaked opened. He could see the outline of at least a dozen slaves, their bodies casting long shadows into the blood soaked room. The ragged remains of the silk drapes drifted on the breeze in the space between them, and for a moment no one moved. The world hung in the balance. And then one of the slaves screamed. Leto snapped back to reality, turned and sprinted to the open window, not pausing when he reached it. Tensing his body he leaped..

..And landed badly. A sharp pain shot up from his ankle, but he didn't stop moving. Leto sped into the night, away from the scene of his first murder.


	15. Chapter 15

**9.20 Dragon**

**Cassandra's Shack, Asariel City**

Leto hobbled through the doorway to Cassandra's room, letting the door slam behind him. Every inch of his body from his bones upwards was in agony, and his leg jarred every time he set his foot on the ground. He had landed hard when he jumped from the bedroom window of Cassandra's husband's house, but such had been his frantic desire to escape he had ignored both the impossible torture from his muscles and the sharp stinging pain in his leg and had run as fast as he was able. Eventually his body had simply given out, and he had been forced to slow down. It hadn't been much longer before he had found even walking difficult and by the time he reached the slum he had barely managed to limp back to Cassandra's grotty home.

As soon as he heard the heavy thud of the door behind him he dropped to the floor, taking deep, gasping mouthfuls of dirty air into his lungs. He fell to his knees, prostrate on the floor with his arms tucked underneath his chest and his forehead pushed against the splintered floorboards as if he were praying, though there was no coherent thought running through his mind. He was vaguely aware of the movements of the crone around him, her scabby hands frantically patting him down as he remained bent double in a foetal position on the floor. Whenever she brushed against one of the deep violet bruises that were spread over his body he flinched, but he had no energy to move or to bat her away.

Cassandra sighed and stopped searching the elf. Either he had the knife or he didn't, but she clearly wasn't going to find it by searching him. She was hideously aware that if he didn't have the dagger then her last chance of salvation had slipped through her fingers. She bit back the temptation to continue poking and prodding him; he was shivering uncontrollably and every now and then a small, high whine would escape from the huddled mess he had become. As bitter a pill as it was, Cassandra felt obliged to at least allow him to recover his wits before trying to find out exactly what had happened. Judging from the injuries he was suffering it seemed to her an inescapable fact that he had failed, probably terminally, in his task. She exhaled sadly as the weight of what that meant settled on her.

"Well, it seems sure that ye failed in thy task. Fault tis mine for trusting it to an elf, and to one as young as thee."

Leto made no movement as she spoke, remaining hunched up in a tight ball in the centre of the minute room. Cassandra watched and waited for a response from him for what seemed to her like hours. There was no way to know how time passed in the cramped space. The room itself was part of a series of underground squats made up of old storage cellars or forgotten armouries; rooms that had once been the central focus of the city's defences back when Tevinter had been at war with the south. There were no windows, and even if there had been it seemed impossible that something as hopeful and as optimistic as sunlight would remain untarnished in such a desolate space. As it was, the only natural element that was present in the room was a clammy dampness that hung to the stone walls and crept into the lungs. The candle that had burned so valiantly when Leto had left for his task was now little more than a stubby wick, drowning in a saucer of its own spent wax.

Time, the only thing to move in the room, continued to pass.

Cassandra felt as though her whole life had been pulled out from under her, which in many ways was the case. Two years of bitter purgatory had passed while she had waited to find someone who she had thought able to perform the ritual, and now as she looked at the broken thing on her floor she couldn't believe her judgement had let her down so spectacularly. She had never been one to second guess herself – she had learnt the hard way that she could only trust herself, and had learnt to depend on her intuition. She knew that a determined and astute mind was the only advantage below Ability in the bitter politics of life in Asariel. Relying only on herself, on her wit and guile, she had successfully negotiated the complex social hierarchies that seemed to prevail in small town life, and had found herself at twenty-two the young wife of an old and powerful man. For two years she had been happy. She had loved her husband, not passionately but with a sense of contentment. Asariel was not a large city, and for many Cassandra's existence would have been noticeable only for its sameness and monotony, but for a young girl of middling birth it had been the achievement of her greatest ambition.

She had looked after his house and eagerly awaited the moment she would be able to announce an heir; she hadn't asked for more and felt no regret when each day simply rolled into the next. But no child had taken root in her, and then from nowhere the sickness had arrived. No sooner had the tell-tale black scabs begun to appear on her than she had been cast out and quickly replaced. No one had stood by her as she had been accused of adultery, of poisoning her blood and womb so disgracefully in the eyes of the Maker that He had chosen to punish her with such a brutal disease as the Rot. Of course it had been a lie. Yet as soon as her husband had remarried, her so-called confidants had easily forgotten they had ever known her, and her family had been relieved to disown her and retain their own new found standing. Her future, so carefully mapped out and planned for, had simply disappeared - like magic. The realisation that she had been abandoned by her friends and family was hard, but it was nothing compared to the heart break of accepting that her so-called 'holy affliction' had to be the result of a curse, performed by her husband so he could remarry.

And now it was happening again; all her hopes had once again been pinned on a man who had failed her. She leant forward from her position perched on the tea chest, her thin, pock-marked arms supporting her head as she regarded the elf.

"Tis a small comfort to ken ye will fail in thy revenge as ye have failed me in mine, elf," she hissed, "For I will nae help ye to Minrathous. Lie on my floor, boy, and we shall die together in this room."

Leto's hand was around her frail, thin neck before she even had time to lean back. His green eyes were narrowed to slits, his voice rising from the depth of his chest to fill the room.

"Bitch! Whore! You lied to me!"

Dark red spittle flew from his screaming mouth as he dragged Cassandra from her perch, his once strong arms shaking from the effort, despite her insubstantial frame. She hit the floor hard, bumping back the final few feet to slam into the opposite wall. Leto leaned heavily on the tea chest, his breathing heavy as he glared at her from across the room. He was covered in splashes of dried blood, and there was a nasty gash running from his right eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone. More worryingly, where his tunic was ripped Cassandra could see further bruising on his chest and stomach - the elf's body was a riot of violent blacks, blues and reds, as if he had been caught in a vice. She watched him collapse again under his own weight; he sank to the floor, his long arms draped over the chest as if it were a buoy that might stop him sinking into unconsciousness. That he had managed to pick himself up off the floor, let alone assault her, gave her hope. Perhaps she had not misjudged him.

"The task is complete? Where is the blade?"

Leto slowly shifted position, drawing the knife out from where it had been hidden against his abdomen, secured tightly with the length of leather he used as a belt. He slid it across the floor towards Cassandra. It was lucky the room was so small, as it meant he didn't need to push it hard for it to reach her. For either present to have stood at the moment would have been impossible.

Cassandra picked it up reverently, as if it were the most precious object in the world - as if were the container of Andraste's own ashes itself. She sighed, a soft and gentle sound in contrast to the hard breaths that Leto drew.

"You lied to me," he rasped.

Cassandra didn't take her eyes of the blade, turning it slowly in her hands. "Nae, I did not. Deal was for the blade to be exchanged for travel to Minrathous. Now it be in my hands, I shall keep my word."

"The man… was not alone… There was a woman... A baby..."

Cassandra paused in her worship of the dagger and looked up at the elf.

"Aye? A babe ye sen?"

Leto nodded. Each breath that he drew to speak caused a burning pain, the result of his cracked and broken ribs. With every rise of his chest he felt a wave of nausea roll over him, and he fought against the overwhelming desire to shut his eyes and escape from this hell into the Fade.

"So.. A child. Did ye kill it?"

Leto shook his head, no.

"But ye bled the woman?"

Leto looked across the room at Cassandra, holding her gaze before nodding his head.

"Mhm. Good. Tis a shame the child lives, but as long as the mage's blood is on here," she gestured with the dagger, "it makes no mind."

"The woman," he spluttered, blood rising to his lips as he tried to speak, "the woman was the mage.. Not the man.."

Cassandra froze in her examination of the dagger, her head snapping up towards the elf as he finished his gurgling speech. She placed the knife carefully on the ground and, like a spider with two broken legs, scuttled across the short distance between them until she was sat next to him. Leto was having trouble focusing now; a deep pounding sound like the oceans of Antiva was gaining volume in his ears _- how could the woman not hear it?_ Leto felt the crisp parchment of her hands on his face, holding his head upright from where it has fallen against the top of the crate. Her hands were so dry against his cheeks, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep. Her voice drifted down to him, as if she were speaking from the top of a great hole he had fallen into. He strained, trying to make out what she was saying.

"Elf! Elf! Listen to me, the woman, the mage, did ye kill her with the knife?"

Leto tried to answer, but when he took in a breath to speak his chest exploded in a burst of pain and he felt yet more blood bubble up from his lungs. He spat, trying to make room for the words he needed, but all that came out of his mouth was thick, dark red tar. Cassandra began to panic. The elf was clearly bleeding internally but she had to know what had happened now, before the herbs she had laced his wine with earlier left his system and she lost her last chance. She slapped him as hard as she could, once on the left side of his face and then again on the right. Her blows should have barely caused him to stir, but his head jolted away from the contact and still he didn't react to her. Desperate, Cassandra reached for the only advantage she had, and prayed to every God she knew that it would work, that he would resurface from the depths of his injuries just long enough to let her know what she must do.

"Ye be dying, elf.. you hear me? The injuries are inside ye, and ye'll nae see the morn unless I help ye. And I can, ye ken, I can help ye and I will. I will save thy life and I will send ye on ye task but ye must tell me," and here she leaned in close to him, her lips pressed against his ear and she cradled his head in her hands, "did ye use the blade to kill the woman, the mage? Did ye use the blade?"

Leto twitched, swallowing against the bitter iron tang on his tongue, "..No... my hands.. I used my hands.."

Cassandra released his head and pulled away from him. He slumped sideways, landing heavily on the corner of the crate. Slowly she pulled herself to her feet and hobbled across the room to where the dagger lay against the opposite wall, bending painfully to pick it up.

Leto closed his eyes. He wasn't in pain anymore, he just felt tired. The table under his head felt good.. not comfortable, but solid. Reliable. The room was getting darker.. _had the candle burnt out? _It didn't matter, he just needed to rest his eyes and then he could deal with whatever problems Cassandra seemed to be having. He could feel rather than see her near to him, and he knew she was worried. He wondered if she was anxious because of him. He wanted to tell he would be ok, that he just need to sleep for a few hours and then he would save her. _Varania_. Why was his sister here? Wasn't she in Minrathous.. _isn't that why I killed those people? To find you?_ He felt something cold against his chest, a distinct chill on the burning skin next to his left nipple. It felt good.

Cassandra put all her weight onto the blade, and pushed it deep into Leto's heart.


	16. Chapter 16

**9.20 Dragon**

**Cassandra's Shack**

Leto bolted upright from the bedroll, clawing at his chest. He could remember the ice cold sensation of the dagger as it had cut through him, but now his torso was as smooth and knife free as it had always been. Still, he couldn't help but run his hands over his chest, as if he expected the blade to somehow materialise, the handle jutting out him as it had from the body of Cassandra's husband. After a few moments of obsessive checking, he calmed down enough to order his thoughts. The shadow of a memory filtered into his mind, the sensation of pain and then peace. He looked around him. He was laying on the small bedroll in Cassandra's hovel, but the room itself was cleaner and lighter than he remembered. A dozen candles burned bravely around the room, and the air tasted fresher.

He held his arms out in front of him, turning them over so he could inspect them. They were bruised, but the bruises were now a healthier yellow - they were healing. He rested against the cool stone wall behind him, and stared down at his body. He first noted that he was near naked; he wore only a strange binding that was looped around his narrow hips and tied securely between his legs. He assumed Cassandra must have undressed and redressed him. The thought didn't worry him; not only had the clan all lived and slept together in the central tent, but Leto was also blithely unaware of his own attractiveness. He frowned slightly, tugging at the unusual coverings, before continuing his self-inspection. His chest, legs, hips.. Wherever he was able to examine seemed to be healing, though his ribs and stomach were a kaleidoscope of mottled yellows and pinks. His ankle was still swollen, and when he tried to move his foot the sudden burst of pain made him wince. He touched his fingers again to his chest, touching the raised, calloused skin that the blade torn.

"Ye be awake then."

Leto turned to the voice he recognised as Cassandra's, but the woman he saw was young, healthy and beautiful. She had warm beech coloured skin, not unlike his own, and honey gold hair that was pulled back from her face in a loose knot. She regarded his shock with amusement, her blue eyes dancing as she smiled across at him.

"Ye dinnae recognise me, eh elf?"

"Cassandra?"

"One and t'same. Though I forgive ye for thy stares. Nae, I thank ye for them. Tis good to know I am so far changed from what I once were."

She came and sat next to him, unembarassedly placing her hand on his chest, covering the fresh scar. "The skin has healed well," she said quietly.

Leto looked at her, shock momentarily overtaking the tempest of emotions that were running through him.

"You're.. Beautiful.."

Cassandra laughed, shaken from whatever gloom had momentarily over taken her. Leto noted there was no accompanying rattle from her chest as her chuckles filled the room. In fact, she now sound genuinely happy, unlike the bitter heckles he was used to hearing from her.

"Thank'ee elf for thy compliment. But I've a mind ye'll nae wish to spake so kindly when ye wits have returned. But while ye foot is crippled ye'll have to settle for yelling at me, for if ye raise your fists all I have to do is walk out of t'door and ye'll starve afore your found. Ye ken?"

Leto opened his mouth to reply, but then paused. He had done enough reacting, he realised, and had nearly got himself killed as a result. Cassandra seemed willing to talk with him, and she had obviously nursed him even if she had also stabbed him. _Perhaps, _he thought, _I should try to act more like myself, and less like my sister._ And then, for the first time since his fight with Varania he felt like himself again. He felt as if he had not only been cured of his wounds from the murder, but also of a canker that had been growing steadily inside him. He was, if not himself, as that person was gone, something like himself. His mind and emotions were under his control again; the madness of grief had passed, leaving behind it the colder senses of certainty and calm.

"I have no intention of harming you. I apologise if I gave the impression I would. I.. have not been myself."

Cassandra regarded him critically. Her outward appearance had changed so drastically, many would have made the mistake of assuming she was no longer the same person. "Who have ye been then, if not yeself? Ye can be nae other, though perhaps ye disnae like that truth?"

"You may be right. Let me say then that I am closer to a self that I recognise."

Cassandra laughed again, her face bright with amusement. Her hand was still on Leto's chest, and she idled her fingers over his scar. He had no idea if she was doing it consciously or not and he did nothing to stop her, even though he found the sensation uncomfortable. Her touch on his skin, despite being uninvited, seemed like a small price to pay for his life. Instead he asked her about her recovery.

"I can see this self ye claim to be is a direct one. Most hide behind their words, but not thee. Let me then reply in t'same manner.."

Cassandra told him about her youth, growing up in the strange no man's land between noble poverty and ignoble wealth. Her father had been an importer, herbs and spices mainly from the south, but had been savvy enough to build the family's fortune. Cassandra, the youngest, had benefitted most from this, and had been introduced into society in her early twenties. A little later than her contemporaries, it was true, but such was her beauty she had quickly found a husband. In fact, she explained to Leto, she had managed to land one of the most eligible and determined bachelors in Asariel.

"The man I killed?"

"Aye, the same"

She went on to explain that she has been unable to produce an heir and after months of trying had come down with the Rot. Her husband had thrown her on the streets, dissolved the marriage and quickly married again. Cassandra hadn't known about the baby, but she admitted she wasn't surprised. Leto listened attentively to her history, only slightly distracted by the warmth of her palm against his smooth chest.

"So the husband poisoned you? He made you sick?"

"Twas as I thought, but nae. The wife were the maleficar, I ken the truth of it now."

"The mage?"

"Aye."

"I begin to understand.. I failed to kill the mage with the dagger, so the curse was not lifted. What is still unclear is why you then stabbed me..?.."

Cassandra looked at him sharply, but she couldn't see anything in his face other than curious interest. He reminded her of one of her father's rigs. When she was little she had travelled the day's journey as often as possible to the docks of Marnus Pell to watch her father's ships come in. They had appeared so graceful and elegant as they cut through the water, the wind in their sails and the figurehead leading them home and yet also vulnerable, their slender masts and bows trussed up in webs of rope. She had, even as a girl, felt overawed as these exquisite floating castles had pulled into dock, the dark wood of the hull shiny with water and creaking under the strain of the rigging. It had been years later that her father had allowed her to board one of his ships. He had held her hand as he walked her across the deck, smiling while she ran her fingers over the polished wood of the wheel and the coarse hemp lines that criss-crossed the vessel from port to starboard. Then he had taken her below deck.

The cool, salty air of the ocean and transformed into a fetid, clammy stench the lower they had travelled until she had found herself in the hold. She had gripped the length of her father's robe tight, peering out from behind his legs at the reality of the ship's grace and power. At least fifty elves had been below, each black with dirt and dried sweat. Some had cuffs around their wrists, with a length chain running between each hand just long enough to allow them to grasp the giant oars which protruded into the space from the small portholes on both walls. The smell was overwhelming, but her father hadn't kept her there long. When they had reached the top deck again, Cassandra had run to the side of the boat and thrown up into the sea. Her father came up behind her, gently gathering her thick blonde hair up so she wouldn't be sick on it. "Daughter, thou has learnt a lesson this day, make sure ye mark it well. This boat is a beautiful creature. She is strong and she is full of the grace of Andraste herself. But such strength disnae come wit'owt cost."

It had been a lesson Cassandra had learnt well, and now as she looked at Leto as he calmly asked her why she had put a knife into his heart she was reminded of that moment when she had realised the suffering and pain that lurked beneath the surface of strength and beauty.

"It were insurance. I am no mage, but ye can find those that will sell their talent."

"So you bought the dagger for its power?"

"I bought a rune," Leto frowned, his face knotting in confusion at the unfamiliar word. "Ye dinnae ken? Tis like a, a magic stone which were crafted specifically for my own needs. It wasnae difficult, if ye know where who to ask. The spell, ye ken, required the blood of the mage what cast it to be broken. Twas a risk.. Who in this city would be fool enough to bleed a mage?", and here Leto smiled and nodded his head at the compliment. Cassandra laughed, and continued. "I had to be sure, ye ken, that the disease would be lifted, and I dinnae trust my fate to the ability o' some sword sell. So I purchased another spell, one that would bind the blood of the killer to the killed. If ye failed in thy task but returned to me I had second chance, ye sen? I had a second chance to rid myself of the sickness."

Leto whistled through his teeth. "And if I had died in the attempt?"

"I was dead already, no one survives the Rot. And I bided my time, waiting for fate to bring ye to my door."

"So why am I alive now?"

Cassandra frowned, and shifted her eyes from his face to the scar that ran over his heart. She lifted her hand from his chest, placing it with its partner on her lap. Leto let out a small sigh of relief when she removed her hand, and Cassandra looked back at him.

"I made ye a promise that I would, though it maybe ye cannae remember it now. Ye fulfilled my task, now I must fulfill yours."

At the mention of Minrathous Leto's whole body changed. He had been sitting up on the bedroll, listening attentively to Cassandra's story, trying to ignore the strange sensation of her hand on his chest. But now he body was taught, his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened. He tied to stand, but even the slight movement of his ankle caused him to howl like a wounded dog. He grabbed Cassandra's hand, gripping her wrists tight enough that she gasped.

"What is wrong with my foot? What have you done to me?" he yelled at her, his deep voice echoing around the stone room. Cassandra tried to twist out of his grip, but there was no way she could match his strength. Violently he pulled her towards him, her frightened blue eyes now level with his hate filled green ones.

"I will ask you again," he spoke to her in a low tone, his voice heavy with threat, "what have you done to me? Why can I not use my foot?"

Cassandra's slender wrists were in agony, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she explained he had been injured it at the mansion and that it was not broken and just needed time to heal. Leto swore and pushed her away from him, hard enough that she landed heavily on the wooden floor. Cassandra, rubbing some life back into her wrists, glared at the elf, though he himself was staring up at the ceiling, ignoring her completely.

"I told ye, elf-" Cassandra began, but Leto interrupted her.

"I apologise," he stated, still staring at the ceiling, "I am.. I am clearly not myself, as I had hoped. Perhaps I never will be again?... But," and he turned to face her, his large green eyes bright, "it is not your fault. I wish.. I am so.. but I am responsible for the deaths of my people, my sister and mother have been taken and I don't know how I will get them back. I know nothing of.. Of 'runes' or spells or slaves. I nearly died fighting that woman, that mage. If the baby hadn't cried I would have. I have orphaned that child, Cassandra, and I don't care. I want only to rescue my family, what remains of it. And now.." he gestured to his useless leg, "...now I am crippled. How will I reach Minrathous before winter of I must wait for my fucking foot to heal?"

By the end of this speech Leto's voice was barely above a whisper, and Cassandra felt how much more sinister his tone was now than when he had shouted before. His eyes were wide and young.

"Elf, ye are the strangest creature I saw. Ye sit there with my hand apon ye as if it were a rat and say nowt, and now ye look into my eyes wit tears in thy own. I said I would set ye to the city, did I not? Take faith."

"How will I reach it before winter makes travel impossible, if I must reside here waiting for my foot to heal?"

Cassandra laughed, placing her soft palms on his shoulders she leant forward and dropped a kiss on his forehead. She pulled back, and smiling said, "Sweet, the same way all ye knife ears do. On t'slaver ships."


	17. Chapter 17

**9.20 Dragon**

**Cassandra's Shack, Asariel City**

It took three weeks for Leto's ankle to heal well enough to support him. Leto spent most of this time confined to the bedroll , but Cassandra kept him sane during those long days, talking to him about The Imperium and the history and culture of the mages and the Magisters.

"But does The Chantry not control the mages? I have seen the towers all over Thedas, are there none here?"

"Nae, the Tanty is a weak and sickly thing. The Black is little more than a puppet o' the Magisters."

"The Black?"

Cassandra laughed at him, her teeth flashing as her smile broke across her face, "Elf, how have ye reached such an age and yet ken so little?"

Leto's mouth lifted in a half smile, "Human, this is why I thank the Maker I have you. Whenever we were in Tevinter we would keep away from the towns, from humans."

"Aye? Well, you've a lot to learn. About five o' six Ages ago, well after Andraste marched on the capital and was burnt at t'stake, the Tanty broke in two-"

Leto frowned, trying to understand. "A schism?"

"I dinnae ken that word. Maybe? The Tanty split down the middle. The south got the White, and we got the Black, though they fought us o'er it. Now, in the south tis thought that magic is a curse o' the Maker, and yonder mages - as ye have seen - are locked in the Circle Towers. The Templars keep them under arms and the White Divine, she keeps the Templars. Is it not thus?"

"As I have seen, that is the case. But it is different here?"

"Elf, tis as different here and ye be to me. Here, the scripture, The Chant o' Light, is read to mean magic is in the service o' man, and the Magisters serve the Maker by controlling the magic. The Black Divine, he-"

"He?"

"He, aye, the Tanty here accepts men."

"Another difference."

"The most minor, I faith. The Circle began here, and it begat the Magisters and the First Enchanter were exalted, as they ken, by the Maker to be the Black. We ain't the south, there was nae change and magic keeps law here."

"I see," Leto lied, and Cassandra smiled at his confusion.

In return for her lessons, Leto talked the world outside of Tevinter. Cassandra adored these stories, and would pester the elf for as much detail as he could give, which Leto initially provided with reticence. In the face of the woman's enthusiasm and wonder, however, he soon relented and retold the tales of his travels with wit and keen observation. The hours drifted by in companionable uniformity, and Cassandra found herself dreading the day she would travel with Leto to Marnus Pell, and sell him to the slavers there. He had insisted on the sale, batting away her suggestion that he simply stow aboard a ship as one of a job-lot of slaves. She wondered at night, as she lay on the floor watching him sleep through her lashes, if he perhaps wanted her to have something for her future. She never asked him if her hopes had foundation.

It wasn't long before Leto was able to stand for short periods, and then to hobble around the room. By the second week he could walk, although he was slower than he liked. At night they would shuffle around the slums, careful to avoid crowded areas for fear of running into the guard. The murder of the Proctor and his wife had caused great alarm in the city, and although only a little of this panic had trickled down to their lowly tier of society, both had decided not to risk discovery for the sake of sunlight.

It made no difference to the young woman whether she saw the sun or not. She happily bought candles made of dirty wax and cheap wicks that would smoke and splutter, coating the walls in a fine layer of oily ash. It was enough for her to see him.

With no real sense of time, they would sit and talk for hours. Cassandra ducked out when they needed food, water, medicine or other necessities, but would hurry back as quickly as she dared to without drawing attention to herself. She was conscientious in her care of her charge, and soon feel into a routine. When they woke, she made sure his bruises continued to pale, that the scars from the whip and the knife remained clean and gently tended to his foot, manipulating it to stop the muscles freezing. She was aware that he found her touch uncomfortable, but Cassandra had spent the last two years of her life confined in a tactile prison, and was obsessed with physical contact. Although she could feel him tense, he didn't complain or shy away from her and with that she contented herself.

In fact, Leto relaxed almost completely in her company, and found he could tolerate the casual way she rested her hand on his chest or stomach as they talked. Although the contact remained unusual, it lost its unexpected quality. He became used to drifting to sleep, lost in the fog of the medicines she made him drink, with the light pressure of her hand resting on him. After the first week he began to share with her not just aspects of his travels but also of his life in the clan, his difficulties fitting in and, finally, of his mother's escape and of his sister and Callum.

He spoke about the mage at length, jumping schizophrenically between anger and guilt over the loss of his mother and sister and the deaths of the clan. At one point he had woken screaming. There was no way to know if it was day or night, but Cassandra was by his side in an instant. After gentle prodding he told her about his nightmares, filling the space they shared with the venom of his hatred from the mage. Eventually the catharsis of self-obsession took hold, and he finally looked at Cassandra. She had managed somehow to entwine her fingers in his own and he realised he didn't want to untangle himself from her warm grip.

"You look.. Sad?"

"Nae, tis only weariness."

"Did I wake you? I, I didn't think – please, my apologies, I did not mean to-"

"Hush, hush. Fret not, I weren't asleep. Tell me more o' this mage. Mayhap I can help ye, if I ken more o' his Ability."

And so Leto explained the spells he had seen Callum cast, describing them in every detail he could remember. Cassandra grimaced as his voice regained its manic rattle, but he gave enough detail to allow her to label Callum as a user of the elemental forces.

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"Well, the mages all have a talent to their Ability. The Magisters label such things, I dinnae ken why. Probably to keep those down that might otherwise rise up. Your friend-"

"He is not my friend."

"Aye, but he once were and ye'll have to make peace with that afore long, elf. He used fire? Electric? Aye, then he is an elemental mage. Such as he may use ice as well, so ye best think on that afore ye face him. I've heard tales o' slaves frozen solid only to be shattered like glass by the flick o' a mage's finger."

"Are there other types? The woman I killed didn't use this, this 'elemental' magic. She didn't seem to use anything, but I felt as if she were squeezing me to death."

"Sounds to me like she were arcane - tis the commonest form o' magic - most with Ability have it. By the standards o' the Magisters tis basic power, but it serves well enough if used with talent, as thy body will attest," she gestured vaguely at his bruises with their intertwined hands.

"Callum is training to be a Magister."

"Then I fear for ye."

"Why?"

"Ye have felt what a country witch can do. The Magisters are to my husband's wife in magic what I am to ye in strength. Mark me, elf, ye'll die at the hands o' a Magister."

"Callum used to be frightened of me.."

"Aye? Well, in faith ye should now be afeared o'him. Magisters are cunning, canny bastards, and if your friend were not a user o' the blood before he took to the capital, he will be now."

As she spoke, Cassandra's grip loosened and she pulled her hand free. Leto watched her as she buried her hands in her hair, shaking it out as if she were beating the dust from a rug. He couldn't read her expression when her hair finally settled in a cloudy mess around her face, but he noticed she didn't return her hand to his.

He wanted to ask her more, but instead he found himself silently reaching out for her hand. His fingers were longer but not much wider than her own, and he watched as he threaded them between hers, resting their palms together. It felt strange. Her skin was warm, and he could feel the calluses on his finger tips pressing against the back of her hand.

He knew she was staring at him, but he didn't look up at her. He remembered his sister. The last time he had chosen to hold someone's hand it had been hers, in the tent after she had agreed to end her affair with Callum. He had felt guilty, and frightened for her safety and.. Lonely. Now he felt.. He wasn't sure. He could still feel his anger inside him, slung low across his soul; but right now, at this moment, he also felt contented. Very slowly Leto lifted their entwined hands to his lips and dropped a kiss on Cassandra's knuckles. He heard her gasp, a small quiet sound that added to the warmth of the moment rather than dispelling it. He rested their hands again on his stomach, and closed his eyes.

After a few minutes, he felt the heat of Cassandra's body and she moved to lie beside him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, her arm stretched across him in order to not break the connection they had made. A few moments later he heard her breathing slow and even out, and he knew she was sleeping.

o0o

The stench of Marnus Pell hit Leto full in the face about a mile outside the city. They had been walking for two days, traveling slowly and avoiding the Imperial Highway. He asked Cassandra about the Maker-awful smell, but she just laughed and told him he would see the source for himself soon enough.

She was right.

As they crested the brow of the final sloping hill before the coast, Leto looked down and saw their destination. He realised he had been imagining the quays and marinas of Antiva, with their clear waters and pale white vessels. What he saw now could not have been further from his understanding.

The docks, the central hub of the town, were encircled by high stone and wooden buildings, and he could see dirty smoke belching out from the tall, thin chimneys that stabbed the sky. Further inland was what must have been the residential areas, but from here the small squat houses and stores looked like nothing more than ticks attached to the back of a dirty, diseased animal.

The sea was black and still. Great ships filled with slaves, spices or livestock sat squat on the surface of the water like boils, their sails looking like tiny spots against the soulless black of the ocean. It was overwhelmingly sinister and Leto looked across at his companion, unable to hide the alarm in his eyes.

Cassandra reached out and gently squeezed his arm.

"Come on then, elf. Let's get down there and be done with it while ye still have t'will."

She had meant to make a joke. But they could both hear the sigh of defeat in her voice.

When they reached the town they headed straight for the docks. Cassandra had explained to Leto that he would need to walk behind her, keep his bowed and not speak a word unless she gave him permission to do so. Never the less, as they walked through the mud and filth that coated the streets, Cassandra was conscious of the elf drawing attention to them. It wasn't his fault, he just stood out; he was too tall, too healthy.

Leto could also feel the eyes of the people on him as they passed. He tried to keep his head down, and concentrated on the hem of Cassandra's heavy skirt as it slopped through the mud ahead of him. The air was thick with the cloying stink of the tanners, foundries, butchers and spice merchants that spilled out of the stone warehouses and markets the fill the streets around them. There was a faint salty taste to the air, but the even the ocean could not complete with the industry of mankind that now surrounded them. Leto's sharp ears picked up fragments of conversations, some in languages he didn't recognise or in accents thicker and heavier than Cassandra's. He tried hard not to think about what he was walking in. It was certainly soft.

He hadn't expected it to be so difficult to follow Cassandra, but he found himself more than once having to look up to check he was still with her; more often than not she would have been buffeted away from him and he would have to duck and dive around throngs of thick set humans, which drew more frowns and glances their way. _How do they manage it?_ Leto thought as he stole glances at the occasional slaves the passed. The few he saw all managed to negotiate their way around the other humans, not to mention the animals, piles of waste and other unspeakable detritus that formed the obstacle course that passed for streets, all the while keeping close to their master, with their heads dutifully bowed.

He husseled up to the wide open doors of the large warehouse where Cassandra had stopped, and gently tugged at her skirt. She had been about to step into the darkness beyond the doorway, but she turned her head slightly towards him, not deigning to face him.

"Aye?" she hissed from the corner of her mouth.

"This is a mistake - I will never pass for one of these slaves!"

Cassandra stamped hard on his recovering foot, and Leto's knee buckled. He lost his balance and dropped heavily onto the filthy ground. He looked up, opening his mouth to scream obscenities, but Cassandra moved like lighting, grabbing him by the roots of his short hair and snapping his head painfully back.

She looked into his eyes.

And then hit him hard across the face.


	18. Chapter 18

**9.20 Dragon**

**Nocen Sea, 42•45'N / 8•50'E **

**and **

**Marnus Pell**

The ship continued to pitch violently, relentlessly slamming its cargo into each other or against the hard wooden walls. The wind screamed beyond the thick hull, its high, breathy whine cutting deep into the terrified elves as they fought for purchase. It was dark, and the hold smelled of fear and spices, the crates having broken early in the storm. A fine dust covered everything, becoming sticky clumps where it landed on the open wounds of the slaves as they wept, screamed and pissed themselves in fear.

With no way to know what was happening, panic and disorientation were turning what might have been a handful of deaths into a massacre. There was no light, and the constant lurching and heaving of the boat against the waves made it impossible to retain any sense of balance, any sense of control or understanding. The bodies of the dead, those too young or too old to survive being flung against the hard oak, now hung by their wrists from their chains, fluttering like flags whenever the boat lurched port or starboard. They floated, their arms extended above their heads as they were suspended by the horror of the forty five degree tilt of the ship, before slamming into the floor when she righted herself.

Occasionally, if it happened close, Leto could hear the sounds of bones breaking over the deep rumbling howl of the wood as it braced against the waves. He felt at least one body fly past him. He had no idea if it had been alive or dead.

Eyes closed against the darkness, he had twisted his hands until he could hold the chains that bound his manacled wrists to the wall, and now gripped these as tightly as he could. It wasn't enough to stop him from being thrown and slammed about as the ship fought the swell, but it did keep him closer to the wooden deck, and saved him from some of the bone breaking force of the storm. While the other slaves screamed in agony as their bodies were swung from their chains like conkers, Leto gripped the metal until he could feel the warm, thick stickiness of blood between his fingers, and still he held on.

The sound of the ocean was like the roar of the Gods.

Leto felt his stomach churn as the boat rose higher, and tightened his slippery grasp on the chain. The storm, which was killing many of the elves that he knew surrounded him in the darkness, pushed harder against the boat.

Weightlessness. Leto felt his stomach roll, and realised too late that ship had left the water. He could taste salt and blood in the air, and for a moment he imagined the huge rig, its sails pulled tight by the hurricane that surround it, perversely afloat in the air as the waves fell away beneath it. His grip slipped, and he was pulled inextricably downwards as the deck began to rise, gravity pulling the ship backwards stern first.

He tried to regain his grip, to pull himself up the length of chain he was now dangling from. But his hands were too slick with blood from the sharp edges of the iron cuffs. His shoulders burned, and still the ship continued to fall backwards.

The boat hit the water hard. Leto's head crashed into the floor; he felt his shoulder dislocate as it was caught under him and then he passed out.

o0o

Behind her the shadows swirled, forming the mountainous shape of a slaver, who lumbered after Cassandra into the street. Leto eyed the man, noting the deep red stains that were crusted on his yellowing shirt. He was an ox, thick-set with tufts of tangled hair escaping from his sleeves and collar. From Leto's position knelt in the mud, the slaver seemed to draw the shadows of the warehouse with him, stretching out in front of him as he blocked the sun. The darkness that preceded them reached Leto quickly, the two humans not far behind. Cassandra arrived at his side, pulling his head up by his hair so he was looking directly at the slaver.

"Teeth," the man grunted.

Unsure what he was supposed to do, Leto glanced at his companion, hoping to read some clue in her face, but she quickly ducked behind her hair, though not before Leto caught the unusual shine in her eyes. Cassandra then fixed her gaze on a point to the left of his head as she pulled his mouth open, and Leto realised what was going to happen. He tensed automatically, but managed to remain still as the man inserted greasy fingers into his mouth, pulling hard on his teeth. He tasted of fish. Leto thought about Cassandra's eyes as he tried to breathe through his nose. He couldn't place their new colour; her eyes had always been bright cobalt but he had seen, before the curtain of her hair had blocked his view, that they were now as dark as midnight.

The man grumbled as he began to check Leto's ears and eyes, not bothering to wipe his own spit from his hands as he did so. Eventually he seemed to decide that whatever it was he had been looking for he wasn't going find.

"Body."

Leto again looked at Cassandra for reassurance, but she continued to avoid his gaze, instead directing all her attention to the other human. His mind spun with images of what was about to happen, but he stood slowly, trying to remember he was a piece of property. The slaver began to circle around him, occasionally extending one of his arms out to his side, pinching at his skin or having him shift his weight from one leg to another. After a couple of minutes he stood again in front of Leto, arms crossed above his barrel chest. A small sigh escaped from Cassandra, and Leto realised she had been holding her breath since the slaver has asked her to show him his body. Leto stood still, trying not to stare at the woman who he had spent nearly four weeks of his life with. If she felt that she needed to ignore him in order to perfect the ruse, he would follow her lead.

The giant looked at Cassandra and whistled slowly through his teeth, shaking his head in disappointment. Leto felt a creeping sense of despair - he wasn't good enough, he hadn't passed the test.

"Well, miss, the leg's damaged and there's scarring."

"Sir," Cassandra replied, "You clearly see that it is not the leg that is damaged, only the ankle, which will heal, as you know yourself. I doubt you would find any of this age without a few marks of discipline on them."

Leto fought his instinct, and kept his eyes staring downwards at the dirt. _I had no idea that Cassandra could speak.. could be like this._ Her normally light hearted, rustic tone was gone, replaced by a clipped, sharp timbre that hinted at the luxury and splendour of Orlais. She sounded wealthy, educated and very, very bored.

"Still, it's difficult, my lady, when they're damaged.." the slaver replied slowly, unaware of the way the earth had just shattered beneath Leto's feet.

Cassandra sniffed, "There is no damage I can see. The body is fit.. More than fit. I don't doubt there are a number of ladies who would find a use for a slave such as this..?", she ran her hand along his jaw as she spoke, and suddenly Leto realised he wanted nothing more than to lean into her touch. His mind misted in confusion. Too much was happening.

The slaver grunted, but didn't deny the point she made. Cassandra saw her opening and went for it. "Sirrah, you have yet to see the best of him," her voice dropped to a whisper as she stood on her tip-toes to speak to the giant. "He will fight, once his ankle, a minor ailment, has healed. He has killed a mage, Sirrah. Sell him to a Magister and see yourself rewarded handsomely."

Leto looked up at her now, not caring if it wounded his chances of being sold. What was she doing? Who was this person, why was she announcing him as a murderer? He wanted to ask her why she was confessing his crime, but he knew he couldn't speak and Cassandra continued to ignore him, watching the slaver coldly as he weighed up the itinerary of Leto's worth.

Minutes seemed to drag as the slaver regarded Leto, tilting the elf's head, pinching skin and once, for reasons Leto could not understand, measuring the distance between his thumb and little finger.

Finally the other man spoke, rubbing the bristle of his chin thoughtfully. "Miss, I can take him, but you'll not see more than a few coins. One slave isn't much good to me, and whatever you may say to his quality, I can see he hasn't been broken. If I sold him to anything less than a Magister I'd be up in the courts on reckless endangerment charges before Wintersun. Gold is no good to me if I'm in jail."

Leto silently cursed. He had known the moment he had seen this fetid port he wouldn't be able to pass for a slave. Cassandra had told him as much herself during their journey from Asariel to Marnus Pell. She had instructed him not to speak, not to flinch when he was touched, to do exactly as she asked the moment she bade him to. He realised now that she had known how difficult it would be for him, how his fierce independence would once again stand in his way.

Mortification and anger washed over him. _Why didn't I listen when she said to stow away? Why did I put myself through this charade?_ He tried to convince himself it was because he wanted her to sell him, to receive some recompense for all the trouble she had gone to in order to help and heal him.

When he had asked how she had revived him from the brink of death she had said only that she had paid a price she was felt fair in exchange for a rare root. Leto suspected magic, but her tone had quickly dissuaded him from further inquiry. He wanted to believe he was suffering this humiliation in order for him to leave her with something, and not because stowing away offered less guarantees of reaching Minrathous.

He stole a glance at the woman. Who was she anyway? Where had that voice come from, and why wouldn't she look at him now? Leto bit back the gnawing ache that she had lied to him somehow, that she was putting him through this not to repay a debt, but to gain something for herself. She had healed him, but she had also tried to kill him. He thought about her, the Cassandra he knew, sitting next to him as he slept on her pitiful bed, talking to him about the city, the mages and magic, about her husband and her family.. but never about herself.

"Do you take me for a fool?", she broke into his thoughts, her voice cold as she countered the slaver's claim. "My father was a trader - a better one than you. Don't try to cheat me with stories fit for the mages and tourists. You know as well as I that you'll fetch a prettier price for the elf if you take him to Minrathous than you'll pay me now."

The giant scratched at his belly, taking his time thinking about what she said. Leto wanted to scream in frustration, but he remained still, standing in front of the humans.

He seemed to reach a decision.

"Miss, you know my game, and that's a fact! Tell me this then, why are you so eager to be rid of him, given his obvious attributes?"

There was the briefest of pauses before she answered. Leto noticed a slight flush of pink on her neck as she replied, "He will not.. work.. for me. I see no point in keeping him as an ornament. I have enough artefacts, I do not need another." She delivered her speech in the same bored tone she had maintained throughout the negotiation, and to all but one present there was no sign of a break in her voice.

The slaver's smile flashed gold, and he reached out a hand to Cassandra. He spoke heartily and loudly to the young woman, asking her to follow him to his office to discuss terms. Leto noted she didn't take his hand, and was surprised how relieved he felt.

o0o

At some point he had thrown up, and the smell of his vomit on his ragged tunic filled his nostrils, blocking out the wretched stench of the sea and of the spices that covered everything and everyone in the hold.

He blinked, trying to get his bearings. His wrists were rubbed raw, the skin red and burning where he had been pulled against his shackles by the heaving of the ship. It was still dark, but now small beams of sunshine snuck in through thin gaps in the wood. Dust and spice danced in the thin light.

Leto squinted, trying the make out his surroundings. The elf that had been chained next to him was dead, her neck snapped. To his right he thought he could hear shallow breathing, but he couldn't be sure. He could just about see the row in front of him, but only so much as to know that there were still bodies there. The light was too dark to notice details like whether they were breathing of not.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, listening for any other sounds of life. He could make out a few more elves breathing, and somewhere, lost in the darkness, someone was crying. But there was a lot of quiet filling the cavernous space, a deep silence that suggested many souls had been returned to the Maker during the storm.

The storm. It must have blown itself out, or else the ship had outrun it. The sound of the waves, the deep roar of the ocean that had seemed to have been about to swallow him was now nothing more than a gentle lapping; Leto could even hear the screech of gulls beyond the thick oak hull. There was another sound, a steady thump, thump, thump above his head. Footsteps.

Leto opened his mouth and tried to scream for help. They needed a healer, medicine, water, anything. The atmosphere below deck reeked of death, the air cloying in his lungs as he tried to make a sound that would carry through the thick wood.

Coughing and hacking against the dirty air, Leto finally managed to raise his voice loud enough that he might be heard. He screamed and screamed and screamed. He screamed until his voice was raw again, until his throat burned in such agony that swallowing hurt.

But no one opened the hold to check on the cargo.

o0o

Cassandra left the warehouse quickly, this time alone. She walked over to Leto but didn't pause, and he found himself having to trot to keep up with her as she flitted through the crowds. She didn't look at him once, assuming he would follow her.

She was walking so fast, ducking and diving through the throngs of sailors, slavers and merchants that once again Leto found it impossible to keep up with her without raising his head to watch where she went. But he tried to do as she had asked him, and as a result was making himself dizzy with the constant lifting and dropping of his head. It was at once such point, when he had been trying to keep his eyes lowered in the manner he had been told was correct that he lost her. He glanced up to check she was still in front of him, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Panic engulfed him. Images of a single set of foot prints in the early morning light danced across his mind, but he pushed the them down, instead scanning the people around him, searching out her bright yellow hair.

He saw her, off to the far left of the street, a good twenty feet from where he had initially expected to see her. She was standing outside a tall, white marble building, staring up at the entrance. The building itself was remarkable in that it was so incredibly different from every other building in the city. The docks were made up of wooden or stone structures, each built for the sole purpose of storing of selling goods. They were designed with a function in mind, some with tall chimneys and others deep gutters. The market buildings were long and low, little more than tents joined together by long sweeps of dirty canvas supported by the thick masts of decommissioned ships. Pubs, their drunken patrons spilling out onto the muddy streets, seemed to make up about every fifth business.

Marnus Pell was a city built for commerce, not for life or beauty. There was nothing friendly or welcoming about this place, nor the people in it. You travelled here to make a deal, to trade your wares or to find passage out and away. No one of any wealth or note would ever consider establishing themselves in such as place, and yet the building that now held all Cassandra's attention was of such beautiful, artful design that Leto was amazing no one else felt compelled to stand and stare at it the way she was doing.

He walked slowly towards her, gazing up at the tall, white pillars that supported the arched entrance. The windows were high and unglazed, as, even allowing for the clear status of the building, to glaze a window somewhere like Marnus Pell and to not expect it to be smashed to pieces the next day was about as fool-proof a plan as a chocolate kettle.

Leto stopped a few feet behind Cassandra, his eyes following the carvings that decorated the triangular archway and the high cornices. The seemed to be telling a story, but what the tale was Leto had no idea.

In the centre there was a circular sun, its pointed beams blazing brightly outwards. To the left were men on horses, with swords and lances raised high. The detail was astounding – Leto, with his sharp vision, could see the muscles straining as the men held their weapons above their heads. To the right of the sun were more humans, only this time Leto could see that they were mages, their long dress-like robes differentiating them. Lightning, or possibly fire, crackled above the mages in waves that appeared just seconds from crashing down on the other humans. In the farthest corners of the frieze there were two symbols. One, on the side of the humans, was the sign of Andraste, a more stylised sun with wavering points. The other looked to Leto to be some kind of eye, but with beams of light similar to the central sun radiating out from the pupil. He had never seen it before.

"What does the eye mean?" he asked Cassandra, being careful to keep his voice low and to remain standing behind her.

She turned her head slightly, and spoke softly from the corner of her mouth. "Tis the mark o' the Imperial Divine, the Black. It shows that the Magisters ken the truth in the words o' the scripture; that magic is to serve man, nae to be denied by him."

"Cassandra, what is this building?"

"Tis the burial house. Come, we need to find a place to rest afore the night comes and I am forced to explain ye to all the drunks," and then she laughed quietly, her familiar, light and open voice floating back to him, "Tis not a prospect I am keen on, for ye take a lot o'explaining, elf."

Leto smiled. He wasn't sure why, but he felt comfortable again, as if a pain he had felt so long it had almost ceased to register had suddenly been eased. He followed Cassandra as she dived back into the busy street.

* * *

><p><em>Had a lot of trouble with this chapter - but I got there in the end! Poor old Leto, nothing ever goes according to plan.<em>


	19. Chapter 19

**9:31 Dragon**

**Hightown, Kirkwall, The Free Marches**

Fenris cursed his failure. He had been so sure that, this time, he had acted fast enough to seize the advantage over his former master.

He had dealt with the trap that had been set to recapture him, using the last of his coin to hire mercenaries to scout out the location; a task in which, he admitted ruefully, _they_ had been successful. They had, as he had suspected, walked into a shit-storm of Tevinter guards and, unexpectedly, had managed to dispatch the guard quickly and efficiently.

What had not gone so well had been _his_ involvement in his own plan. He had offered them more coin, gold he didn't have, in return for their help in sacking a mansion which he had been informed the bastard Magister had taken up residence in. And maybe he had, Fenris would never know, because he had run in, screaming threats and vengeance at the top of his lungs. _I might as well have been his fucking guard dog __–__ again._ Once again the Magister had escaped, and all the elf had to show for his efforts were more scars.

_And what about the mage?_

That had been an unwelcome surprise. If Fenris had known that the leader of the group he hired had been a mage, he would not have asked for further assistance. _And I would no doubt be dead now. _He couldn't deny the fact that, without the help of the small, expert group he would have been overpowered by the demons the Magister had left behind him.

The old, unwelcome sting began to dance across his body, sharp and insistent. Fenris took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He didn't need to draw any more attention to himself; he drew back into the shadows of the tall building, leaning against the wall, trying to relax. After a moment the itching pin-picks that had threatened to break loose of his weak self-control died down, and his skin lost the tight sensation he associated with the lyrium.

What now? The mercenaries he had hired would catch up with him soon, demanding payment he didn't have. It wouldn't be difficult to kill them, but Fenris was surprised to find he recoiled from the idea. They had helped him, had followed his request further than they had been employed to do so and he couldn't, against his better judgement, reconcile himself with their murder. He wanted desperately to be a better man, laudable as that was.

The elf had no idea what would happen next. The simple truth was, he now realised, he had been half expecting - half hoping - to die tonight. He had spent almost a year trying to engineer a strike against the Magister. He had, since entering the Free Marches, been carefully leaving small clues to lead his former master to the 'City of Chains', to Kirkwall. He had thought that, this far from Minrathous, Danarius would be helpless; a ready victim, his heart as easy to pluck from his chest as an apple from a tree. But of course he had been wrong, and now he had nothing. No plan, no leads, no money. No purpose.

Fear had propelled him out of Minrathous, kept him moving despite his exhaustion, despite his crippling sense of dependency on the very person he sought to escape. Fear had helped him in those early months, kept him moving when all he wanted to do was curl up and die. When his fear had fallen away, when he had stepped over the border to Nevarra, all that remained to sustain him was vengeance. He wanted to punish the person who had taken so much from him, the person who had stolen his life from him. But now.. Danarius would no doubt be on a boat to Antiva or Rivain. _And here I am, skulking in corners, hiding from another mage._

He regarded the courtyard and buildings around him, his eyes narrowed spitefully against the lies that surrounded him. Kirkwall had been free of the Imperium for hundreds of years now. The slaves here had successfully rebelled, and it was this that had drawn Fenris in. A pathetic, romantic notion that he, like his brothers and sisters before him, might finally sever the ties that bound him.

A_ pitiful joke. _Fenris' bitterness twisted and settled in his gut, it's poison seeping into his blood, as it had for as long as he could remember which was, of course, _another fucking hilarious joke. _Fenris' hatred had been his sole constant and now, in the wake of his failure and disappointment, it settled on him like a familiar, welcome blanket, easing him and comforting him.

The buildings reminded him of home. Each mansion was built out of a local stone rather than the marble of Minrathous, but they were still light in colour, square with long stairways and wide entrances. Perhaps Kirkwall, like himself, had not been as successful as it first appeared at removing the influence of its dominance. But, Fenris tried to coach himself, the city had succeeded with the help of its neighbours. He had hired help, for the first time in years had shown himself to people, shown them the monstrosity that he was. The thought returned, _without them I would be worse than dead, I would be reclaimed._

He ran his hand through his mop of white hair, but the customary feel of the cold metal of his gauntlets against his scalp jarred. An unwelcome sensation settled on the elf, one he couldn't place and couldn't recall, like so many odd feelings that seemed to rise up in his mind when he was tired or anxious.

This time it was the sense that it shouldn't be his own hand running through his hair, but small, warm female hands, soft and... and...

_And what? What exactly?_

He shook it off. He had never known the feel of gentle hands on his skin. It was yet another cruel joke, his subconscious mind tormenting him again and again with feelings and sensations that he could never have experienced; half glimpsed, unfocused images of a life that he had never lived. Fenris assumed he was somewhere in his late twenties, perhaps even early thirties, and that he would have been born to slavery like all the others. He had certainly been his master's pet every day he had known until the day, three years ago, that he had escaped. He had no idea why his mind threw up these shadows. At times he suspected they were some form of punishment, an undercover torture implanted in his mind by Hadriana. To give him false memories in replacement of his lost ones would be exactly the kind of cruelty she would relish.

He pulled his hand away from his head, and caught sight of the lyrium along his forearms. He regarded the markings, knowing all too well how they snaked over his entire body, from his lower lip to the under soles of his feet. Revolted, he closed his eyes tight. His eyes stung and his throat burned with tears that would never be shed.

After a moment he heard the voices of the hired crew as they approached. _Time to decide what my future will hold_, Fenris thought bitterly as the mage and his companions turned the corner, none looking too pleased.

o0o

**9.20 Dragon**

**The Magistrate's Cap, Marnus Pell**

Leto followed Cassandra up the narrow staircase to the room she had rented for them. The inn below was crowded with both patrons and noise, but none had paid her any attention as she had hired a room for the two of them. It seemed that a young woman taking a single room for herself and a male elf was not an event worth censure, which was of course the case. Of all the injustices in the Imperium, sexual inequality was not among them; women were allowed their excesses in Tevinter as much as men. What Cassandra chose to do with her own property was up to her. The elves where, after all, tools to be used; what difference did it make, when you got down to the bone, what use you put them to?

Leto was surprised by the room they entered. He knew Cassandra was running out of money and he had been expecting them to bunk down in some kind of hostel or dormitory. The room he in fact found himself in was small, plainly furnished and clean. A small window let in beams of musty sunlight, and there was a narrow bed along the wall, hidden below the low wooden beams that intersected the ceiling. A ceramic jug and wash bowl were placed delicately on a wooden stand in the corner of the room, and a larger chamber pot took up its shameful position beneath. There was no table, but a small dresser with a stool could be used to write letters, if the occupant so required. Cassandra flopped down now on the stool, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her feet.

"My feet have marched a league this day."

Leto stood in front of the door, observing her as she concentrated on rubbing life back into her small feet. He thought about his own bare feet, which were sore but not painful. He watched her hands, noting the way her toes flexed.

"Can you afford this room?"

"I'm nae paying for it. Tis cheap when tis free."

"But-"

"Tis none of your concern elf. Just be grateful. Ye can spend your last days o'freedom in the lap of luxury, eh?"

Cassandra's tone had such a finality to it that Leto suspected she wouldn't speak to him again. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, she finished kneading her feet, but seemed unable to settle. Standing, she walked over to the jug and peered inside.

"Water's fresh, but I would nae advise ye drink it. Best to get yesen a drink from t'bar downstairs, ye wont be charged." Cassandra sighed, her voice dropping low, "my father always taught that alcohol killed sickness in the water afore it could be drunk. I dinnae ken if it's true.." She trailed off.

Leto looked at her back, aware that something was wrong but unable to work out what it was. They had been successful - no, he corrected himself, _Cassandra had been successful_. She had sold him to that man, and now they had only to wait two more days before she returned to the warehouse to hand Leto over and collect her payment. It was all working out as he had planned it, and although the delay was frustrating it couldn't be avoided. Cassandra had flat out refused to hand Leto over without receiving coin and seeing him onto the boat, despite the slavers sworn oaths of honour, and Leto was stoical enough to realise they either way he would be forced to wait the two days while the ship was stocked and crewed. Better to wait here with Cassandra that chained in a warehouse.

Yet she hadn't looked at him since the moment she had struck him outside the slaver's. They had spoken, but Cassandra had always managed to find something else to be doing or looking at during their short conversations. And now she stood in front of him, bare footed with her back to him, talking to him but trying to say something else. Something deep and painful, something that caused her bitter laughter to return, that darkened her eyes and hurt him in a way he couldn't understand.

Her hair was escaping its bun, and thin golden tresses of it were falling down her back. Leto wanted to undo the knot the clung to the nape of her neck, and without thinking found himself moving towards her, his hand poised to pull the pins from her hair, when she turned. She gasped, startled to find the elf so close to her, but she ducked around him and sat on the bed, staring at the wall opposite her.

Leto let his hand drop, unsure what had come over him. Instead he sat next to her on the bed, noting the way she shuffled slightly away from him as he did so.

"Cassandra, what's wrong? If you wish me to leave I will."

He watched her as she pressed the balls of her hands against her eyes, as if she were trying to block out the world.

"Nae, I do want want ye to leave, elf. Can ye not see that?"

"I see only that you avoid me, that you seem to be.. you seem to wish me to be no longer in you company. If you.. If you ask me to leave, I will go. You have kept your part of our bargain – there is no debt left between us."

Cassandra rotten laughter spilled over her lips, and Leto remembered the broken, sour crone she had been when she had first approached him in the market square of Asariel. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now that he heard it again it made him feel sick. Overpowered by a need to silence the insidious noise that was spewing like bile from her, he grabbed Cassandra by her shoulder and forced her to face him. The shock of the contact silenced her, and they stared at each other. She held his gaze, her face tight with restraint, and again he saw darkness in eyes, the deep blue-black of midnight. She dropped her head, unwilling to see the concern in his face.

Instictively, unthinkingly, he took her chin in his hand, this time gently tilting her face upwards, towards his own. He ran the calloused tips of his fingers against her lips, trying to sooth and banish her bitterness.

Cassandra's breath hitched in her throat. She tried not to open her mouth as she felt the rough pad of his fingers brushing against her lips. This was more than she could bear. She looked up at him, hoping to see something of her own emotion reflected back in his eyes.

He was looking at her intently, the green of his eyes lost to the blackness of his pupils, so clear in his large eyes. Cassandra's felt a tightening in her stomach, as she leant forward into his touch. _This is it_, she thought as his hand slid from her mouth to clasp her hair, his other hard dropping from her shoulder to rest on her waist.

Cassandra held his gaze as he stared at her, her breath hot and shallow against his wrist as he massaged her head, his fingers carding through her thick hair, pulling it loose.

Leto felt out of control. He had no idea how he had begun this, or how to stop it. _I don't want to stop it_, he realised. He could feel the long curve of her waist through the heavy dress she wore. Before he could stop himself he was moving his thumb in soft arcs across her flat stomach, gently grazing the underside of breast. He felt her shudder, sending a bolt of electricity through him.

And then he felt her lips against his own, and his thoughts shattered in a thousand unimportant pieces. She felt amazing, soft and warm and welcoming. His mind raced as his desire for her swelled. He felt her hands tentatively rest on the side of his face, her eyelash brushing against his cheeks as he kissed back her again and again, each touch of their lips longer and more insistent. _Maker, I need her, I need her. How can I have not felt this sooner?_

Desire overcame him. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head backwards so he could kiss her neck. He had never felt this way before, never wanted anyone like this. She tasted clean, and her hair smelled faintly of the hay that had cushioned the cheap bedroll in her shack. He heard her sigh as he kissed and licked her neck, a sound that sent shivers running through his body.

He pulled back, brushing his face against her own as he moved to kiss her again.

_Oh Maker, the taste of her_, the sweetness of her lips was his undoing, and when he felt her tongue hesitantly brush against his own he could no more control himself than the tide could control the moon. He groaned, an animal sound that rose up from him unbidden.

Leto gently pushed Cassandra back, unsure exactly how to proceeded but unable to stop. All his anxiety, all his fear and anger were nothing in the heat of his desire for her. Everything in him burnt away, leaving only the slight, smiling blonde woman who lay beneath him.

He kissed her again, licking and nipping at her now swollen lips, her neck and collar bone. He could feel her hands in his hair as she held him to her, pushing her body up to meet his own.

Leto's experience was limited, but Cassandra's response to his touch was so enthusiastic, so joyous that he felt his confidence grow with every thrust of her hips against him. The thick wool of her dress scratched against his face as he trailed kisses over her body, and when he slowly began to lift her skirt Cassandra reached down to grab the hem of the dress. She tried to pull it up and over her head, tangling them both for a moment in the folds of material.

Cassandra giggled as they fought against the material, and Leto's heart soared when he heard the sound of her laughter.

Fumbling and laughing, they manages to pull her free of the wretched dress, until she lay beneath him, naked and glowing with want and happiness, a large smile playing across her lips as she looked up at him.

"I have dreamed of this moment, elf, and now tis here, ye are here before me..."

"You are the most beautiful, most radiant thing I have seen," Leto replied truthfully, running his hands greedily over her bare stomach and breasts, relishing the way she trembled under her touch.

"Elf, ye ken ye speak too complicated for a slave?"

Leto laughed deeply, and Cassandra truly understood for the first time how beautiful he was, how beautiful he would be if only he would let himself be happy. She looked up him as he lay above her, and realised with a jolt how much she loved him, and how completely he had already broken her heart.

She gasped as he suddenly pulled her into his lap. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him for balance, and was amazed and delighted when she felt the heat and length of him pushing up against her. She rolled her hips against him, and was rewarded by deep, gutteral growl escaping from his lips.

He clasped her buttocks, pushing her soft naked body against his hard flesh, only the thin material of his own clothing now blocking their desire. He held her tight to him as she pulled his tunic above his head, releasing her only to free his arms before retuning his grip to the soft curve of her ass.

She screamed in delight and surprise when he suddenly lifted himself up onto his knees, her legs still wrapped around his hips as she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. He managed to pull his leggings down with one hand; his other was holding Cassandra to him, so desperate was he not to lose the warmth of her body against him.

His leggings now abandoned, they were both naked, Cassandra's lightly tanned body wrapped around his own. Both Leto and Cassandra were a mess of giggles and smiles, each dropping kisses on the other, whispering endearments and marvelling at feel of each other. As he gently lowered her onto him, gasping in delight at the feeling of being inside her, Leto felt, for the first time in his life, as if he belonged.


	20. Chapter 20

**9.21 Dragon**

**Egidius' Manor, Minrathous, The Tevinter Imperium**

Shanna's skin prickled as if a thousand spiders were crawling over her, though she tried desperately to keep her hands steady and she pulled the brush through her mistress' hair. The slave girl knew with hopeless certainty that she had no ability with such things, and was biting back the panic that filled her because, sooner or later, she would have to try and style Hadriana's long brown mane into something sophisticated enough for the party. So far she had managed to smooth out a number of knots without causing her mistress any distress, but the idea of arranging and lacquering the hair filled her with dread. Shanna gulped as the brush caught, but her mistress didn't seem to notice. The slave took a deep breath, closed her eyes and concentrated on easing her strokes, concentrated as if her life depended on it. Fauna's life clearly had; there was no other way to explain her absence from roll-call this morning, or Shanna's inexperienced hands now performing the missing slave's task.

With a sob caught in her throat, the young elf realised she could no longer get away with only brushing Hadriana's hair, which hung thick and shiny down her back. Heart thumping in her chest, she eyed the thick, syrupy lacquer that she would need to artfully manipulate through her mistress' hair to transform it into the pile of curls and waves befitting a lady of Minrathous. Like a painful bruise begging to be touched, Shanna couldn't help but wonder how her punishment would be carried out when it became clear to Hadriana that she had no skills or knowledge in the art of hair and make-up. Lips sucked in between her teeth, Shanna's hand hovered between the jar of thin metal hair pins and the lacquer. She didn't even know how to begin.

Her thin fingers came to rest on the lacquer pot as it warmed in a shallow bowl of hot water, when a miracle occurred. Hadriana started and eyed Shanna with surprise, as if she hadn't been aware of her presence for the past hour. The mage muttered something that Shanna couldn't understand, and then waved her impatiently out of the room. Ducking and bowing like a see-saw, the slave left as quickly as she could, carefully closing the door behind her.

Hadriana reached for the pins and began arranging her hair, jamming each sharp little needle home with a speed and ferocity that were it not being self-inflicted would have caused her to severely punish a slave. Instead, she regarded herself dispassionately in the polished bronze mirror as she deftly pinned her hair up. She had about two hours before she needed to be downstairs to welcome guests and play hostess.

Ostensibly Egidius was hosting this year's Wintersun festival, an honour that was shared out amongst the older families, but anyone who hadn't been living in the fields for the past year understood that this was really Hadriana's night. Wintersun festivals were exciting affairs in the whole of the Imperium, but in Minrathous they were the stuff of legends. The changing of the season, the moment when the night begins to pull back and the sun to reclaim its sovereignty over the earth was a relic from the time of the old Gods, and yet it had managed to survive the rise of the cult of the Maker. If anything, in the capital it had grown in importance due to the opportunity it provided to display one's wealth and taste. Not that Hadriana had any interest in such things, but the festival had begun as an Elven ceremony, a ritual to mark the end of winter and to welcome back the sun. What it was now, however, was far removed from its natural and humble beginnings. There was a reason why a common, highly predictable name given a child born in early autumn was 'Winter's son'.

And this year, the honour of hosting had fallen by proxy to Hadriana. It had been extremely stressful, and she had been forced to lose a number of slaves due to their total incompetence, but now, with the party only a few hours away, she felt sure she had orchestrated a night that would be remembered. And yet, despite her months of planning and preparations there were still an alarming number of flies in her proverbial ointment. The thought of standing all night on Egidius' arm made, despite the shudder it invoked, was her most minor concern - nothing compared to her deep anxiety that Callum would bring his whore with him.

Pausing in her task of pinning her hair, Hadriana stared at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror. She recalled the last three months of Callum's tuition, gratified at least that her expression remained perfectly neutral, as she had trained it to be. It was not a subject which brought her any pleasure, but she couldn't stop recalling all the embarrassments he had caused her, in the same way that one might keep scratching a bite, no matter how much worse it became as a result. She found she couldn't resist replaying all the little infractions he had made during his training; all the times he had tried to include his slave in his lessons, or even – Maker forgive him – his conversations with other humans, other _Magisters_. Reaching for the lacquer, she daubed it angrily over her newly created curls, fixing the swirling loops and knots in places, causing her deep tobacco coloured hair to shine. Hadriana was not by nature prone to sudden bursts of anger, but whenever she considered the problem of her apprentice, she was subjected to the unusual emotion. And, as interesting as it was to experience how the other half felt, she predicted the thrill of so-called human feeling would grow old very quickly.

She looked at her reflection carefully. She knew she was beautiful. It didn't really interest her in itself, but she appreciated how her sky blue eyes and china skin could be used to her advantage. Watchful as ever, she studied her likeness for any flaws in her handiwork. _After all, it is our mistakes that make us better_, she recited the lesson from her childhood under her breath. Her hair was piled up perfectly and her eyes sparkled, thanks to a few drops of lead infused water and the heavy application of kohl. And yet, she still didn't look _right. _Clicking her tongue against her teeth, the young apprentice tried to settle on a neck band from amongst the clutter spread out in front of her.

It would have surprised her friends, if Hadriana had ever made any, to discover that she was an untidy person. She had a tendency to let items simply drop from her hands when she had finished with them, carelessly leaving a trail of untidiness behind her as she went through her day. And why not? She knew the elves would be scurrying around behind her, picking up her discards and spiriting them away as if they had never existed. But she preferred to keep them out of her room. She could never quite escape the shudder that passed over her when she imagined their strange, long ugly fingers on her personal effects. So, although she felt more relaxed in her own, private space, her room was littered with chests and trunks filled to bursting with old clothes, rings and other nick-nacks she had never got around to throwing out.

What frustrated her now was not how disorganized her armoire was, but rather how uncontrolled her planning seemed to be. A lot had happened in her life recently that, if she were honest with herself - and Hadriana had never been anything less - was not what she would have desired.

She finally settled on a wide, silver choker. Simple and elegant, its highly polished surface cast subtle reflections which sparkled across her smooth, pale skin. It gave the impression of warmth and movement, and would hopefully mean she wouldn't have to pretend to smile the whole night. Hadriana's stillness upset people; she hadn't learnt to cultivate the little mannerisms that would settle others. If she had known that the nurturing of such little ticks had been one of the first tasks her idol, Danarius, had set out to master she would no doubt have worked harder at such social graces, but they appeared to her only fruitless artifice. Instead she did nothing to check the eerie stillness of her mannerisms, nor the way her smile seemed to twist and curl across her lips like the last throws of a dying animal. Perhaps her most alarming trait, however, was the way she tended to _look_ at you, an experience entirely more alarming than simply being stared at. When Hadriana took notice of you, it was clear she was weighting up your worth, and Andraste help you if you were found to have nothing to offer her.

It was for this reason she had become known, very much behind her back, as The Viper. In fact, as slurs went it was probably more help than hindrance; after all, a weak Magister was no Magister at all, even if only an apprentice. The nickname did, however, miss the mark. Hadriana was no snake. She was a spider, spinning her webs and revelling in the show when someone got caught. She would let them twist and struggle, quietly listening to their desperate attempts to free themselves from her attention, and only when they had given up all hope would she strike.

Such little games and intrigues kept her occupied and exercised her mind. Hadriana was a firm believer that to be a great Magister one needed not only Ability but also an adept and agile intellect. The recollection of all the inventive methods she used to exercise her mind brought a happy smile to her face. It was a bother for her that she had only Egidius' elves to work on, but as soon as she attracted Danarius, with his wealth and influence, she knew she would be free to stretch her wings. The prospect of Danarius, of having him and knowing him, was the only chink in Hadriana's armour. Whenever she let her mind wander towards him, as she did now, she felt a strange, exciting queasiness in her belly.

"Surely this year", she murmured with conviction to her reflection, "will be the year he finally notices me?" But, even as the mantra left her lips her confidence faltered. _Callum._ She thought again about her 'apprentice', who, although learning fast, could hardly be called an asset. Hadriana had wanted someone she could show off, an apprentice who would talk her up at parties and add to her status. What she had was a reasonably competent rube with an elf fetish.

Thank the Gods she had at least managed to make him see the dreadful faux pas, as the Orlesians would say, of letting his slave walk next to him when outside the mansion. Hadriana had felt crucified with embarrassment the first time she had taken him to the senate; the thought of it now still caused her cheeks to blush a deep, unflattering red. Now, if she could only get him to the same realisation with regards to _inside_ the manor as well. Hadriana groaned, the thought of having to spend half her night keeping the hedge-mage out of the line of dignitaries already exhausting her.

Sighing heavily, she reached for her powder and began to tone down her skin.

o0o

The party was in full swing, if such a small word could be used to describe the hundreds of guests, slaves, dancers and mummers that thronged the old manor. The sun had long ago set on 9.21 Dragon, and the year 22 was being welcomed in in the great tradition of Minrathous; in blood, wine and debauchery.

A thousand candles warmed the enormous room with a gentle, flattering light which danced and sparkled across the gold and silver the guests wore on their wrists and necks. Younger, attractive slaves, naked and dusted with sugars and spices, negotiated their way around the guests, circling until one of the humans would pull them to the side and, licking their sweetened skin, celebrate the New Year - or at least, a few minutes of it.

The air was heavy with incense, magic and sex. Older slaves stood to the sides, ensuring the wine never ran dry and the food and 'entertainment' were constantly replenished. Hadriana had worked hard to guarantee her party would be the latest word in elegance and hedonism, and had certainly surpassed herself. The large ballroom, the centre-piece of Egidius' beautiful manor house, had been completely redecorated in gold and red silks, the traditional marble statues replaced by fountains that poured forth wine and ale endlessly. Long, low benches were scattered around the room for the guests to sit or lie on as they gossiped, networked or indulged in each other. Long feasting tables stretched the length of the western wall, groaning under a rainbow of delicacies: boiled meat and breads from the foot of the Anderfell mountains jostled for position with minted and spiced Nevarran lamb and Antivan fish swimming in butter. The ale, untouched by all but the most experimental and now horizontal of guests, was imported all the way from Ferelden, a fact which raised a number of eyebrows from the more miserly invitees. More popular, though in fact no less expensive, was the wine, which was Tevinter or Orleasian in origin, though most guests' palettes had long ago lost the ability to differentiate the Aggrio from the Chateau Montsimmard. The atmosphere in the ballroom was one of indulgence, luxury and greed.

If it had been possible to view the party from above, one would have seen small groups forming and dying around the room, little finite islands of Magisters, politicians, Chantry officials and their various hangers-on: the beautiful, sexual and talentless men and women that power and wealth inevitably attracted. Bursts of laughter punctuated the steady hum of a hundred voices all talking at the same time. If there had been an observer somehow looking down onto events, they would also noticed how the air was frequently pulled tight as a Magister dipped into the Fade to show off a new or recently perfected spell, little exhibitions designed to hint at greater Ability.

And there, right in the thick of it all, Hadriana stood, her normally frozen face for once smiling. Callum had disappeared hours earlier with his whore, having refused to allow her to participate in the chores of the other elves and therefore been dismissed very summarily by Egidius, an event Hadriana recalled with an even mix of joy and shame. She wasn't sure where the old man was, but she had been grateful he had taken her side in the matter. Perhaps he had already retired? Hadriana didn't let her thoughts remain too long on him; this was her night. _And here I am, at the centre of everything._ She smiled and performed her own approximation of simpering to the men around her, ensuring glasses remained full and appetites sated, playing the part of a gracious hostess for all she was worth.

Excusing herself from each group after a respectful amount of time, she drifted around the room, making sure that nothing was out of place, that no guest was left wanting of anything that she could provide. As is often the way of fate, it was as she was walking past a small group of senior Senate officials that a name caught her attention. The men and women in this group weren't Magisters, and as such would normally not have caught her ear, except that one of them, an old, fat man, had said the one and only word that was guaranteed to draw her in: _Danarius. _ Hadrian hung back, ducking behind on of the many silk curtains that hung down the walls and criss-crossed the room.

"The man's certainly _unique_", the fat man said carefully, the strange squeak of his voice showing he was not yet drunk enough to be unconscious of the dangers of incriminating himself by critiquing a Magister.

There was a pause while the others in group decided how to respond to his comment. Hadriana could feel the soft brush of the silk drape as it rested against her cheek. She couldn't see the speakers from her hiding place, but she didn't need to. She had eyes the group before she had hidden, and even if she had not their type were common enough in the city. The capital was lousy with the sons and daughters of prominent mages, even Magisters, who had been born without even the smallest amount of Ability. Of course, amongst the common folk such people could be accounted for, could even be gainfully employed in trades that required skills or aptitudes beyond the elves' meagre capabilities, such as farmers or guardsmen or the like. But for a named family to produce a non-mage was another matter, and such embarrassing offspring where often found administrative roles within the Senate. It would be a mistake, however, to assume that this was an easy life. Even amongst the administration branches of the Imperium the politics were deadly, and they had to decide if the speaker was setting a trap or genuinely opening a door for honest discussion. Hadriana bit her tongue, her obsession with Danarius driving her to listen for any piece of information that she could use to gain access to him.

"He is…" said a female voice, slowly, "a very individual man."

"Yes," came a third voice. This one was different, younger. It sounded arrogant and self-important, and wasn't tempered by the quiet caution of the first two speakers. An idiot, then, Hadriana thought. "Did you hear about the assembly with the Fereldons? Apparently," the idiot continued, "he insulted one of their dog-lords and had some kind of hysterical fit on the balcony."

A triumphant smile blazed a trail across her face as she heard this. Speaking in such a way about a Magister was a capital offense, punishable in to lowest form by amputation. Somewhat overexcited, she wondered how she could present the Idiot to Danarius; perhaps she should carry out the sentence herself, and make a gift of his hand to the Magister. The other two, the man and the woman, hadn't commented on the Idiot's outburst, but something must have encouraged him to speak because, his voice laden with drink, he continued:

"And have you heard…?... He is gone to Neromenian to read the Quanari texts there. The man is mad!"

"Shhh, you fool. You have no idea who's listening," the old man interrupted, his voice high with fear.

"No one's listening, Marcus. Look around you, everyone's drunk or fucking."

"Mmm. I had heard that he has left the city to continue his study.." the woman interjected, her tone carefully neutral.

"You've heard about that too? Is it true he's trying to rediscover the secret of the lyrium warriors?", the Idiot's voice was breathy in excitement. Hadriana frowned. She hadn't even realised that her idol wasn't planning to attend, let alone had left the city. Curious now, she held her breath, willing the three officials to continue their inappropriate conversation. _What is a 'lyrium warrior'?_

"To the void with you both," the old man spluttered, "I have no interest in courting death. Keep away from me!" Hadriana heard his heavy footsteps thump away from the group. After a moment, the Idiot spoke again.

"Anulya, do _you_ think he will find the secret? Is that why he's gone to Neromenian?"

"I think.. I think he is a very intelligent and _driven_ man, and a great Magister," the woman said, her words slotting into place carefully, "and I believe that he has spent the best part of his very _illustrious_ life in the pursuit of this discovery. I will say this though.."

"Yes?", the Idiot replied, his voice dripping with intrigue.

"If he does discover how to make such a warrior, the rest of the Magisters will be in trouble. Danarius does not strike me as the kind of man who would share such information, and to have a living, breathing lyrium warrior would make him untouchable. Certainly impossible to '_remove'._"

They were silent then as they considered these words. Finally the idiot spoke, obviously unsettled by the turn in the conversation.

"I think.. I think I will just go and, uh, take advantage of the wine. Please excuse me, Anulya."

"Good evening," the woman, Anulya responded, before walking away herself. Hadriana extracted herself from behind the curtain, her mind racing. She had never heard of such a thing as a _lyrium warrior_, but she had heard enough to know that she didn't care for the sound of it.

Hadriana had been trying without success for over two years to attract Danarius' attention. She had forced Egidius to launch attacks on the man, all of which had ended in bitter disappointment. It had once been Hadriana's plan to allow Egidius to target Danarius, to threaten his life and then expose him as the conspirator. Egidius would be put to death, and Danarius would have fallen in love with Hadriana for her bravery and loyalty. But that had been the idea of a child, Hadriana realised. Egidius was too old to pose any magical threat to Danarius, and Danarius too wealthy and protected to be endangered by assassination attempts. All that happened was that Danarius distanced himself from the House of Egidius and thus positioned himself even further from Hadriana, which had resulted in her reckless demands for an apprentice to wow him with and which had turned out, with the certainty of Blighted fate, to be Callum. Hadriana had hoped that by training her own apprentice, even when she herself was not a full Magister, Danarius might have been drawn to her, intrigued by her ambition and Ability. But of course, the apprentice she had been given had turned out to be Callum; the rotten, elf-loving yokel. He had become much more a liability than an asset, and she had found herself avoiding places where she might run into Danarius for fear of him seeing the disgusting affection between her apprentice and his slave girl.

But perhaps it wouldn't have mattered? If the conversation she had just heard was correct, maybe Danarius would never have noticed her, even with her apprentice. It had sounded like he was fixated on this 'lyrium warrior'. _Perhaps,_ Hadriana thought, _there is a third way to win his attention._

She stood still, watching the party wind and twist in front of her. She had done it all for him, in the hopes that she might impress him. And he wasn't even coming, he wasn't even in the city. For most, this would have been a crushing blow. To have worked for so long, creating something for the sole purpose of impressing another and then to find out that the object of your desires was over a hundred miles away.. Many would have given in then to self-pity and despair. Not so for Hadriana.

Quietly she padded after the woman, Anulya. The party was roaring around her, but Hadriana delicately, silently stepped over tumbling bodies and they grunted and writhed on the floors and low benches and ducked easily around groups of guests, laughing and showing off to one another. Hadriana moved with stealth and purpose, slowly and unnoticeably closing the gap between herself and the other woman. She smiled with cold satisfaction as she watched Anulya break away from the party, and head off down a corridor. _Probably looking for a bathroom_, Hadriana thought with a smirk.

Not bothering to check if anyone was watching her, Hadriana followed the older woman down the long, lonely corridor. She caught up to her target easily, her soft steps giving no alert to her presence. Anulya jumped when she felt Hadriana's cold hand on her shoulder, but she barely had time to turn around to see the face of her attacker before she hit the ground, unconscious.

o0o

Anulya awoke, her head pounding. She at first thought that she must be suffering from a hangover, but when she tried to move she realised she couldn't. She felt as if she had been running, the muscles in her legs and abdomen burnt with the pain of exertion. _But I was at a party_, she thought dumbly, her foggy brain unable to keep up with her current predicament. Blearily, she took in her surroundings. She was somewhere cold and made of stone, tied to a hard chair with thick lengths of rope.. and… her eyes grew accustomed to the dirty light… _oh Maker_.. there were rivets running under her chair towards an open drain…

Anulya began to scream, pulling against the rope than held her down, her eyes wide nd bulging with panic. The thick hemp burnt her skin as she tried to free her arms and legs, and she suddenly realised she naked, and that she was going to die. She swallowed, her throat flaming in sympathy with her rope-burnt arms and legs, and managed to stop screaming. She couldn't control the small whimpers that trembled across her lips.

Hadriana moved round into her field of vision, and Anulya caught the barest glimpse of relief on the mage's face before it settled into a parody of concern.

"My, you are noisey, aren't you?" The young woman asked casually, kneeling down in front of the bound older woman, careful not to actually touch the sticky floor with any part of her body save her feet. Anulya wondered, the distraction of shock easing her earlier panic, what is was that had caused the deep brown stains on the flagstones. She heard, somewhere in the distance, an instruction, but for some reason Anulya didn't understand, she couldn't hear what was being asked of her.

Hadriana frowned, and flexed her fingers to the tune of her magic. Anulya's head snapped up.

"So.. I have some questions," she said sweetly, no sign of her momentary impatience in her voice. "I'd prefer it if you answered them quickly and succinctly. Then I will kill you in the same manner. Is that clear?"

Anulya, tears streaming unnoticed down her face, nodded.

"Good. What is a 'lyrium warrior'?"

Anulya gulped, her eyes darting from left to right. Hadriana sighed, bunching her small hand into a fist. There was a crack, and the older woman's right arm snapped like a twig. Anulya screamed as the bone of her forearm protruded through her skin, her blooding pouring out of her and running softly down the gutters to the drain.

"Now.. I am going to take away the pain of that, because I understand that it hurts, and perhaps you can't talk to me if you're in pain? No? But listen very closely," Hadriana brought her clean, beautiful face so close to Anulya's that she could feel the soft swell of her breath, cold against her tears. Hadriana spoke clearly, ensuring that the other woman could follow every word. "There is nothing left in your life to fear, except me. When I ask you a question, you will answer it."

Anulya sighed in relief as the pain simply disappeared, though she couldn't bring herself to look again at her arm. It was strange.. She couldn't feel the bone that had torn through her skin and muscle, but she could feel the blood as it trickled down her arm, tickling the fine hairs there. Anulya had thought about her death before, because of course it was impossible not to make predictions about your demise when you were involved in politics. She realised that this was almost exactly how she had imagined it would happen. In the dark, in blood, at the hands of a Magister.

_But there's no pain._ Anulya swallowed thickly, and started to speak. She told Hadriana everything she knew about the legend of the lyrium warriors, and what gossip she had heard about Danarius' pursuit of the same.

"What has he discovered?" Hadriana interrupted.

"Mistress, I do not know. But he has spent all his adult life on the task, so I imagine he must be close, or closer than any other has come since the skill was lost."

"Has he attempted to create one?"

"There are rumours, yes. But apparently they all die. He has settled on elves, I don't know why, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sniffed, freighted of the pain being brought back, "and one of his guards said that he was in Neromenia to find out more about the person who might survive the ordeal. The guard said, mistress, that he is getting desperate."

Hadriana stroked her chin, lost in thought. _Why bother with the elves? Surely such a race would never stand up to the process?_ What Danarius needed was someone strong enough to survive, someone willing to fight.. someone who loved him. _Someone like me._

A rare genuine smile stretched across Hadriana's face. She waved her hand in a complex motion, and Anulya slumped dead in the chair. Beaming, Hadrian stepped around the body and went back to her party.

* * *

><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

**9.20 Dragon**

**Edigius' Manor, Minrathous**

Callum swallowed the retort that pushed against his lips, trying to escape. He had by now argued enough with Varania to know that, were he to say what was on his mind, the row would only escalate. And, Void take her, he hated to see her angry, when her smooth pale face was distorted by rage and her eyes clouded with hatred for him. Not that his silence seemed to make much difference, the damage was done. He watched her back as she stormed ahead of him to their quarters, her head high as she stamped her little feet along the stone corridor.

_What was I supposed to do?_ He silently fumed. _Let her be handed out like some_ _sweetmeat?_ He was at a loss. The thought of her being treated as such, as just another slave.. Anger rose inside of him to meet the knot of annoyance caused by her reaction.

He sighed as she reached the doors to their room about ten paces ahead of him and slammed them violently behind her. No one, not even a slave, was present to witness her insubordination, but Callum still felt the shame of it, even alone. He reached the doors a moment later and was overwhelmed with a feeling of exhaustion. His hands rested on the silver handles, paused and then dropped. Instead of continuing the row he carried on down the corridor, towards the gardens.

Lost in self pity, he let his feet take him through the winding corridors, each one identical to the last. Edigius' manor house was of the old style, all pale walls curving in shallow arcs to meet the tiled ceilings, every room and hallway, with the exception now of Hadriana's newly decorated ballroom, unimaginatively uniform.

Callum had felt let down when he'd first arrived by the datedness of the house; he had imagined staying in one of the famously modern Minrathan townhouses, designed to be tall and elegant, with sweeping towers and diamond arched windows in the new Nevarran style. Yet like so much about Minrathous, the manor was a disappointment, representing a stilted and muffled life that Callum had no intention of living. He wondered briefly how Hadriana could bare it, but then he supposed her tastes didn't run to aesthetics, nor her desires to the kind of creature comforts and symbols of wealth he himself craved.

He had seen the look on her face during his classes with her, the almost serene aura that came over her as she drew the knife across the forearm of one of the slaves. The magic he was learning was worth his suffering, but Callum found himself consciously setting his mouth into a thin line whenever it was his turn to cut a slave, determined not to resemble Hadriana in any way.

Taking a deep breath of the chill night air, he walked through the Orleasian windows out into the main lawn. Despite the raucas welcoming of spring being carried out inside, the air was still bitterly cold, causing Callum's breath to hang in misty clouds as he began to walk along the gravel pathway towards one of the many walled gardens. The thought of being accosted by one of the guests, unlikely as that was out here, was enough motivation for Callum to venture further into the cold night.

As he scuffed his way towards the rosary he wondered, not for the first time, what he had done to deserve such ill treatment from everyone around him. It was all painfully unfair. Callum had never in his life been censured or refused anything, and now it seemed he was being rebuffed from all angles. It was hard for him to live in a world in which he was not by default the voice of reason and deference.

His family had been powerful and respected in their own right in Asariel, often hosting dinners and entertainments for the local magistrate or visiting officials. Even before his Ability had manifested Callum had grown accustomed to merchants and tavern owners showing him respect, in addition to the general levels of reverence shown to all by the slaves.

And then his magic had revealed itself and Callum's status had soared. His younger brothers had shown no signs of Ability and his parents, amazed and delighted by what their line had produced, had bowed to his every whim. Now about the begin his nineteenth year, Callum was experiencing for the first time since his infancy not only blatant and wanton refusals of his demands, but also a distinct disregard for his status.

Egidius barely acknowledged him, except to enforce whatever nasty little scheme that soulless witch had dreamed up. It was obvious that the old man had absolutely no control over the running of the House of Egidius, but nevertheless his word still held weight in the eyes of the law and tradition, and that wavering, croaky voice always spoke in favour of Hadriana, regardless of what she demanded.

Callum shuddered against the memory of Hadriana's slender, pale hand rested on the thin wisps of hair on the old Magister's head as he had instructed Callum to either provide his slave to the party or to remove both Varania and himself from the festivities.

The embarrassment of being sent away like some whelp in plain robes still stung, but it was nothing compared to his absolute hatred of Hadriana for putting him in that position in the first place. She seemed determined to sever his relationship with Varania, and although she made a great show of saying it was for his own advancement, Callum suspected she simply enjoyed causing pain.

He sat heavily on one of the stone benches that lined the rose garden, now nothing more than rows of bare twigs, their leaves trimmed back ruthlessly to ensure greater blooms when the spring finally arrived. _Everything dies in the winter_, Callum thought vaguely as he doodled whorls in the gravel with his slippered toes.

He wondered how long it would take him to become a Magister. Hadriana had been studying for years, and she was still only an apprentice. A small, sad smile played across his lips as he remembered a time when all he had wanted was Varania. Now he realised he wanted nothing more now than to receive his title and accolades and take himself and Varania away from this place.

Yet, Callum knew with cold certainty that if she continued to cause scenes like the one tonight with the house master he would never be appointed. _Perhaps,_ he mused, _it would be better for her and for myself if I restricted her more? Kept her to our rooms, at least when I'm not there to keep her in check? _He sighed like a man with a thousand burdens. _I suppose this is what love is._

The sound of footsteps on gravel made him look up, but it was only only one of the many slave girls. She was naked and he could smell the sugar, cinnamon and starfruit pollen that was dusted on her skin. Her hair hung loose down her back, shiny and oiled but without the small silver coins threaded through the strands in the style the other slaves had worn.

Callum wondered that Hadriana had allowed such a thing. He almost laughed when he imagined how angry she would be to see this girl with her undone hair, walking alone and away from the party. She walked like a queen, her head held high, each step confident and assured. She would be whipped for such behaviour, and even that might not be enough. There was an air about her that seemed to defy her status, her nakedness and her surroundings.

Something about her stride unsettled him.. He stared at her as she moved towards him, her small, pale breast glowing in the moonlight. _Varania! _His mouth hung open like a drunkard as he watched her sway towards him, holding herself as stable and supplely as a dancer, her calloused feet used to walking on bare stone.

She stopped a few feet ahead of him, just out of reach should he try to touch her. He gawped at her instead, suddenly awake and alive and no longer exhausted. A small smile played on her lips when she saw the effect she was having on him, but she didn't move any closer.

_Is she going to scream at me? Is this another weapon? _The young mage's mind raced, even as his heart beat faster and his blood flowed quicker and quicker through his veins. Instead, she lowered her gazed and spoke softly, "Master."

Callum couldn't think straight; his brain seemed to no longer to be in control of his body. But something in her tone, rather than the word she used, dragged his attention upwards to look at her bowed head.

"Why don't you look at me?", his forehead creased into a frown.

"That is you question?", she asked, her voiced deceptively gentle.

A warning ran through Callum's mind then, even as she slowly began to circle her hands across the scented plane of her belly. He struggled to keep focused on her words.

"You always look at me. You have never shown the proper respect.. You have never been afraid."

"And look where that has got.. us."

Every instinct urged caution, a thousand alarms rung in his mind.. But now she was touching herself in ernest... Callum's breath was hot and heavy against the cold night air, little puffs of his life brushing against her as she stood above him.

"I - you are not their slave -"

"But I am yours?"

"Yes. You belong to me."

"My mother also?"

"Fasta Vass," Callum swore, his breath ragged as he tried not to reach into his robe and ease him

self. He sensed the moment hung on a thin thread, and he did not want to snap it.

"But you don't wish me to work as the other slaves do?"

_Why all this talking? Isn't it obvious? _"Mine. You're mine."

"Ah, so? And do you want to take what is yours?"

_Yes. _

"Yes.." His voice, even to his own ears, sounded like a plea, and he knew Varania had heard it too, despite her bowed head.

"Then who, I wonder, is the slave now? Is it me...?"

Her hand was lost in the soft red hair between her leg, the other drawing intricate patterns over her breasts and stomach. Callum was almost in pain now. He wouldn't be able to restrain himself much longer, and they both knew it.

The game, the game was everything. She was his perfect opponent, and in that moment he regretted nothing that had happened to place her here, in front of him in the cold air of a new year.

"Is it me, Master? Am I the slave?", she repeated, a slight gasp catching in her throat.

"No... Mistress."

o0o

**9.21 Dragon**

**Edigius' Manor, Minrathous**

Varania rolled over in the strange bed. The thick mattress always seemed about to devour her, no matter how she moved on it. Callum snored gently next to her, his breathing regular and strong. The little noises he made annoyed her, but she supposed she would get used to them, like everything else here.

She rolled clumsily onto her belly, burying her face in the coolness of her pillow. The other elves weren't given a bed to sleep in, nor fine clothes to wear, fresh food to eat and sweet fruit wine to drink.

Varania examined her mood, trying to understand why she had been so angry earlier. Cal had only wanted to keep her safe, hadn't he? Or had he only wanted to protect what was his? Varania knew in her heart the answer was a little of both.

The room was cold. Hot stones had been placed under the covers hours earlier, but now they lay cold and useless along the foot of the bed. Varania tickled her toes against the smooth stone as she thought about her new life.

So she was a slave, and her mother too. But not an ordinary slave. Cal seemed intent on keeping her separate, keeping her special. It was an odd feeling to be venerated in such a way, but not unpleasant.

She glanced at the human, his big face with it's broken nose relaxed and sated. Did she love him? She loved the power she had over him. Earlier, in the gardens, had been one of the most thrilling, exciting moments of her life. Even now, hours later, the memory caused her to stir. But did she love him?

_It probably doesn't matter anyway, if I am a slave, I am a slave. The feelings of a slave are hardly strong currency._

It interested her that the realisation didn't offend. She was well treated, spoilt even. Her mother was safe, if not exactly well and happy. What was so terrible about that?

For a second she thought of her brother, and wondered why she hadn't remembered him sooner. She had been in the human city for three moons, shouldn't she have thought about him before now? But she'd been busy, learning about the city, visiting the Senate and the other landmarks with Cal and his teacher, the mage woman. _Besides, he's probably on his way here anyway to ruin it all for me_, she thought sulkily.

Things were exciting, Varania decided. No doubt her rotten brother would show up soon and end her adventure, and then did it matter if she had been a slave for a short while, or if she actually loved the man next to her?

So resolved, Varania snuggled herself into the warmth of Callum's chest, sighing happily as he brought the weight of his arm around her narrow shoulders.

* * *

><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

**9.21 Dragon**

**Egidius' Manor, Minrathous**

Egidius opened the doors to his chambers slowly, unsure what he would find within. _Ridiculous to be afraid of entering one's own room_s, but recently he had found himself growing weary and weak and the last thing he wanted now was to find her stalking across his floor, waiting to take her anger out on him.

The clang of metal against metal drew his eyes downwards. He noted with only mild alarm how his hands shook as he grasped the silver door handles, his family rings beating out the disjointed rhythm of his age. Balling his hands in to painful fists, he let his mind drift for a moment, remembering how radiant she had looked last night, _last year_, as she had stood next to him, her arm looped through his own.

He knew the other Magisters and Brethren mocked him, without even having the grace to do so behind his back. They all thought him a deaf, senile old man, and as a result did little to guard their wagging tongues when he passed them in the Senate. The Magister allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he thought about their careless self-assurance. Old he was, but deaf and senile he was not. Last night he had walked around Hadriana's party as best he could, listening as the conversations that surrounded him became less guarded as the guests became more inebriated. He had been listening for something that he could offer to Hadriana, something to help her.

Not a particularly self-aware man, Egidius had however always had a keen survival instinct which manifested itself as a knack for reading people. He had always been shrewd and wily enough to recognise the desires and dreams of others, and to use these to his advantage. Machiavellian to a fault, it alarmed him now to realise that he chased down information for his apprentice not out of the desire for self-promotion, but out of a sense of stomach churning fear of not being deemed useful anymore. It was a terrible thing, in one's dotage, to be deathly afraid of youth, snapping at your heels as it tried to pass you by.

_Worse still to desire it_, the old man wryly admitted. The last six months had been extremely hard, and though he was grateful to discover that the backwater mage seemed to do nothing for Hadriana except rile her, he did tire of their arguments and her complaints.

He wondered that the boy could be so naive, but then weren't all young men when in the grip of a woman? _Old men too, it appears._

His hands were now somewhat under his control again, though his knuckles burned from the exertion. Fumbling the door open, he shuffled through into the bright light of his private rooms.

_The light is always brighter in the winter_ he thought as he went to the curtains in order to pull them closed. He ought to tell the boy who did his rooms to close them, but even though the light burnt his eyes and made them stream he liked to walk into a room filled with sunshine. And with so few days left to him, why not indulge in a little sun?

He heard her footsteps behind him as he dragged the thick drapes across the window, but he still jumped slightly when she wrapped her arms around his thin body, pressing herself against him. Lowering his arms, he rested his hands on her own.

"Hello love."

"Hello old man."

Egidius smiled at that. Hadriana was the only one brave enough to say that to him knowing he could hear. Or perhaps she simply wasn't afraid of offending him. He patted her hand absently and asked her to help into his chair, which she did with unexpected care and patience. Egidius felt the day curdle, and wondered what she wanted. He could afford more slaves if that was all if was, but her gentle care of him belied a greater request and he felt too tired now to deal with anything larger than signing a promissory slip.

She helped him into his chair, dropping a kiss on his head as she did so. The Magister felt a stirring in his groin, and had to repress a laugh. She was so _talented_, even his old cock was fooled by her. He loved her all the more for that small piece of theatre, that delicate and artful manipulation of him that made him feel, just for a moment, alive and young and virile.

He knew he would give in to any request, and he knew she knew it as well, devious beast that she was. When she only asked him for a lesson, his whiskery eyebrows jumped up to meet his thinning hair line.

"Is it so surprising I still seek you wisdom, Teacher?" she purred softly, her fingers tracing patterns along his arm as she spoke.

"My love, you are nothing but a surprise to me. But no, of course I will teach you, if that is what you wish. Now, love, what would you like to know?"

She shifted position, so her back rested against his knees, allowing him to run his fingers through her thick hair, a fetish she knew he enjoyed.

"I would like to learn about the legend of the Lyrium Warriors."

That surprised him. He leant forward in his chair, his dusty bones creaking with the effort. "Ah, so? May I ask where this interest has come from?"

"Lord, it is nothing but a wish to spend time with you."

Oh, how he did adore her. He scraped himself back in to his seat, settling his fingers in her hair. "You are an artful child. Keep your intrigues, but remember my aid when you bury me. I wish for a procession, you know that?"

"Lord," she replied noncommittally, her voice steady and without emotion. Egidius sighed to himself, annoyed he had sunk to such a ploy for her affection. He didn't blame her for not pretending, he respected her for it.

"I know only scraps of facts, coupled with my own hypothesis - you understand? Good. According to ledgend, a Lyrium Warrior is a living man with lyrium infused in his very body. You do well to gasp, love," he smiled as he heard his apprentice's shock. "If the rite is successful the Warrior is permanently linked to the Fade, and is infused with great power.

"Many Ages past, there was a Magister named Nereda, extremely versed in the use of Lyrium, though perhaps misguided. She worked with the dwarves, trying to create a new type of Golem, a living Golem made of flesh, not stone. The experiment was unsuccessful, disastrously so. The flesh Golem was a grotesque, a hideous beast that straddled our world and the Fade. The enterprise ruined Nereda, poor woman."

"I've never heard of her..?"

"Few have. She left the Senate to help the dwarves, shared our secrets with them in return for their funding, in return for their Lyrium. Tevinter was still at war with the South. It was seen as a defection. Her name is mostly purged from the records, her and her family removed from the Room of Faces on the mount."

"How do you know about her?"

"I am old, as is this House. The old Houses have always kept everything; there are some of her early scrolls in the library, if you can stand to read the old tongue."

He could almost hear the question on her lips, and wondered if she would give it voice. After a moment of silence he continued. It seemed she was not going to trust him with her plots.

"The Golem made of flesh was.. A failed experiment. But it was, perhaps, based on some truth. Nereda, it is my belief, was trying to adapt the rite of the lyrium Warrior, but she didn't have all the research, or her research was flawed. Or perhaps she was simply not as talented as she thought she was. Who can say?"

"This doesn't make sense," Hadriana complained, annoyed by his ramblings.

"I talk about Nereda's monster because I believe she is the only human to have attempted the rite. Legend says it was originally an elvhen ritual, a tattooing similar to their _vallaslin,_the blood tattoos that they use to symbolise when a child becomes an adult_."_

Hadriana wasn't interested in elven lore, and did little to check the frustration in her voice. "Why have I not seen these tattoos on the slaves?"

Egidius tutted, the closest he dare come to reprising her. His tongue sounded thick and heavy in his mouth as he flicked it against his teeth. The sound was lost, and Hadriana never even knew she had annoyed him. "Probably due to their age," he explained. "Most of our slaves are either born to it, or are smuggled from the southern cities – no Dalish there. If we do take wild elves, we only take the young; older ones are harder to train, and so are usually put down before they ever reach the cities.

"Some authors argue that the Vallaslin are a reaction to the destruction of the ancient city of Arlathan and the mass emigration of the elves into the human cities in the south. A way for the Dalish to show their purity, their prestige. Not so unlike ourselves, are they love?" he said, his mouth cast in a hollow smile.

"That is a disgusting thing to say, old man," Hadriana snapped, her intense dislike forcing the veneer to slip, ever so slightly, ever so quickly. Egidius admired how gracefully she recovered, her tone changing from anger and disgust to coquettish femininity with barely a missed beat. "See how you make me shudder with such comments," she flirted, drawing his attention to her rising chest with a small nod of her head.

"A sight indeed for such an old man as I."

"What has this to do with the lyrium Warrior?"

"Be patient. This is a lesson, is it not? The elves were the first here, even before the dwarves. Sadly, a lot of their history has been lost, even to them, so it is difficult to know any real facts about these Warriors.

"Nereda stumbled on some truth of it, of that I am certain. She refers to the '_Lyrium Ghosts'_in her writings, she talks of the original 'Children of Thedas'. Who can that be but the elves?

"Their Gods, that is the secret, at least, that is what Magister Nereda believed. In their legends there were two Gods, one the Father and the god of vengeance, the other the Mother, and the goddess of protection. There is some heathen nonsense about the sun and the moon, it is quite diverting if you ever find the time to study it-"

"I doubt I will," Hadriana interrupted.

"No, perhaps not," Egidius yawned, his age and the story beginning to tire him. "The lesson is nearly finished, anyway. The Father and the Mother had two Sons, both of which became - I will spare you the details - linked to the Fade, linked to death and to the secrets of the mortal word.

"Nereda wrote that these Warriors were the living representation of the two brothers, that the elves believed that anyone who could survive the process became, in a way, the living incarnation of the Father, the Mother and the Sons. These lyrium men, Warriors, Ghosts, whatever they are named, were revered by the so-called 'Children of Thedas', only the greatest warriors could undergo the ritual, and even then I suspect few survived. There must be a reason why the elves abandoned the craft, and the sheer danger of it, the hundreds who must have died to find one strong enough to survive.. That is my wager. Or perhaps the Warriors truly were Holy manifestations!" He laughed wetly, a phlegmy cough catching in his chest as he did so.

"Either way, the art is truly lost, Nereda's tragedy is evidence of that. She had all the resources of the dwarves, all their gold and Lyrium coupled with the wisdom and Ability of an Imperial Magister, and still she failed."

"So it is a farce then? A child's tale?"

"Maybe. Maybe not," Egidius dithered with infuriating calm. "As I said, maybe Nereda was not as brilliant as she thought she was - perhaps her arrogance was her downfall. The patterns of the Vallaslin is supposed to represent each of their Gods, did you know that, love? An amazing thing, really. Shame how these little interests are being lost to the modern Age.

"So much of what we base our knowledge on comes from the elves, and with that the knowledge of lyrium. But then, what is the superstition of savages to us? We took what they could give us and perfected it, and then we took them."

"Without us they would have died out long ago," Hadriana replied, her self-assurance wrapped tightly around her words. "One might as well mourn the domestication of cattle."

Hadriana stayed a while longer, asking questions about the elves, her body stiff with dislike. When she finally left his room he was tired and lusty, so he rang for his girl to ease his need. Despite his physical state, he felt warm and content, having enjoyed his time with the monster. _I suppose this is what love is_, he thought dreamily as the slave quietly entered his room.

I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja


	23. Chapter 23

**9.20 Dragon**

**Marnus Pell, Tevinter**

Cassandra climbed hesitantly up the stone steps to the mausoleum, her steps weighted and heavy, as if she were carrying a great burden. She hadn't even remembered the Room was here, but when she had passed it with Le- with the elf, she had been amazed she had ever forgotten it.

Her father had always insisted they visit it whenever in Marnus Pell, stating the importance of paying their respects to those who had gone before, who had worked and strived to place himself and his children in the position they had enjoyed.

He had told her as a child that their ancestors watched over them, guarding and guiding them through their lives. Such teachings went against the Chantry, but they did no harm and so many people still followed these little pieces of lore it would have been impossible to effectively enforce any kind of sanction.

As a young child Cassandra had found the idea of her dead relatives watching her deeply disturbing, much more so than the Maker. There had been something so... So intrusive about it. Her relatives knew her, knew her blood, even if they'd died years before her birth. The idea of their eyes apon her, watching and waiting for her to misbehave had given her such vivid nightmares her parents had worried she was in the thrall of a demon.

More than two decades later she wondered if they had been right all along. If she were possessed then she couldn't be blamed. You can't blame an abomination, can you?

Her eyes burnt with tiredness.

She moved slowly through the grand proscenium arch into the Greater Hall, her steps accompanied by the faint jingle of her sin as it rested in her pocket. _Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, _the marble echoed back to her as she walked, the faces of the Holy watching her as she past them.

The vast tableaux that had been carved into the walls would not frighten her, she refused to allow those dead hypocrites their power. Each enormous scene depicted an Andrastian parable: Andraste giving sermons to the people at The Well, Shartan leading the populace, Maferath's betrayal, Andraste set aflame, Andraste in her gown, the Bride of the Maker.. The images of every childhood in Thedas, for a half dozen Ages.

But Cassandra knew that there were scenes missing from the histories. The murals kept their secrets, speaking only the Chant of the Imperium. They did not show the truth: that Shartan lead the elves, the slaves, in his rebellion, nor gave any hint that Andraste was fighting the Imperium itself, her main teachings being against magical rule and slavery.

It wasn't that these facts were secret or outlawed, they were just never spoken about, never acknowledged. They died on the lips of babes, and by adulthood were the strongest of taboos. Only the crassest of citizens would bring them up in company, and in truth very few people now even thought about that part of the history.

Her hand held tight in her pocket, Cassandra doubted as she walked down the long cool aisle to the Room of Faces that parts of her history could be so easily erased.

The image of the elf being led in chains up the gang plank to the slave ship sprang into her mind, but she didn't try to push it down. If she had been devout she would have gone to the Chantry to pray; instead she had come here, to visit her ancestors. What could a dead woman and a bastardised fairy tale offer her? The memory was her penance, and she would not fight to forget it.

The Great Hall ended with little ceremony, just a curtain run along its length. It might have once been red and plush, but now it was threadbare, with patches so worn they may as well have been holes. She pulled the certain aside, and stepped through.

The Room of Faces was as eerie and stark as ever she remembered. A long corridor of red stone, the colour of death and cold as the Void, stretched out in front of her. Into the walls small alcoves had been carved. It had always felt to her like she had been shrunk and placed inside a termite nest or bee hive, as if the Gods of old or the Maker wished those who stepped inside to realise how small their lives were when held against the endless time of death.

Each alcove contained a small candle, which were kept lit by volunteers, usually widows or soldiers crippled in the endless war with the Qunari. The light cast strange shadows on the pocketed walls of the Hall; it felt as if the walls and the ceiling were closing in. It was a claustrophobic womb, a space filled with lives that had ended. Yet, as preternaturally horrific as the space was, the Faces were worse.

Cassandra paused for a moment, her memory failing her. She glanced around her, looking for her family plot. She felt a pang of shame that she couldn't remember where is was placed in the long room, but it had been so long since she had been here, and so much had changed in her life since then.

She walked over to the left, and looked for an inscription to guide her. She was surprised to find she was almost on top of it. A few more paces and she was standing by her family's recess. She peered into the deep space, and the Faces stared back at her. Inside were tiny discs of jade, onyx or dragon's tooth, each carved into the resemblance of her dead forebears. There were about ten in all, her family having come into money late. The light from the little candle lit them up, casting shadows along the cold, lifeless masks.

Her father was at the front, having died only a year ago. Cassandra hadn't gone to the funeral, nor to the internment. She hadn't been invited, and hadn't wanted to attend. Her family had abandoned her as soon as the rumours of her infidelity began, and when the Pox had claimed her she had died to them as surely as her father had.

She looked at him now, her hand reaching into her pocket, hefting the weight of her guilt as it lay there in the folds of material. She spoke softly, her voice thick with emotion but steady. She cursed him for his part in her life, for believing the worst of her and for prizing his status above her well being. Her voice came ragged, heated by anger and betrayal. She had worshipped her father, and he had been the first to cast her out, to condemn her and distance himself. Underneath the beauty of her trust.. He had warned her, all those years ago, but she had been too young to understand.

And then she forgave him, because now she knew how difficult it was to swim against fate, against the bitter cruelty of the world - to do what you know is right, and to refuse to do what you know is wrong.

She pulled her hand from her pocket, and placed the three solid gold coins that had been there next to him. The price of her soul in three small discs, glittering in the dim flame of the candle.

Cassandra leant forward, her voice finally cracking, and whispered her secret to her dead family. And then she left the Room of Faces, and Marnus Pell.

**9.25 Dragon**

**Asariel City, Tevinter**

She had travelled back to Asariel and her little hovel, always looking to her door, hoping, longing for it to open. After the first two years it became harder to remain in her old squalid little room because her situation caused too much comment.

Cassandra had tried to stay in the slums, tried to keep to the areas they had walked together as his ankle had mended. But it was hard. There had been no love for her there now she had her health and her beauty. And, of course, there was the notion of what was Proper, a possession held rigidly to by those who had nothing else to claim as their own.

Oh how she hated them then. She had lived among them for years as her disease grew worse. They knew who she was, or had been, but they hadn't cared. As long as she was a wretched as they she was welcome to beg with them, to live and eventually die on the streets as they did.

But now she had her health and her long, golden hair again, and they began to distrust her, to prowl around her looking for a reason to cast her out. It had been less than a year before the rumours of her involvement with the elf came to light, and by the Gods did they punish her for it.

Cassandra was not Proper. She had broken the cardinal rule, and the tutting, the sly comments and the scolding near drove her mad. But it was the threats of violence that eventually drew her out of the slums, and towards the centre of the city.

She had woken one day to find a dead puppy outside her door. The creature couldn't have more than six weeks old. It was so small she could have held it in one hand, it's matted brown coat slick with blood. The pup's ears had been cut, sliced into thin points. She had gathered her things, wrapping the most precious in the only soft material she owned own, and left the slums.

The people from her old life had recognised her more quickly then she has prepared for, and soon all the flies gathered around her, to nourish themselves on her wounds. Whispers spread like disease amongst the bored, wealthy women, and Cassandra was such a fantastic story. Here her 'indecrestion' was not a matter of censure, Maker no! She was a fascination, a sideshow, a riveting diversion from curtains and sowing and the incessant rounds of spring weddings.

The highborn women, spiteful and bitter, even offered her their congratulations: "A miracle", "I know how you suffered, dear, but the Maker forgave you", "Such beauty, such golden hair, such brown skin", "You are truly blessed".

On and on their empty words rained down, always masking the truth. _We know what you did, we know what you did, we know what you did._ They blessed her golden hair because it was not red or brown, her golden skin because it was not pale and milky. They felt they knew all about it, but they didn't know anything. Cassandra felt suffocated by their ignorance, even as she took their gifts, took their hospitality. She knew she should be grateful. But she couldn't bring herself to settle back into her old life. It was a false life, she knew that now, and she didn't want it anymore.

Now it was five years later. _Five years._ Cassandra accepted Leto would never return. Once she allowed the idea to take root, she saw the truth of it. She felt stupid for waiting, for believing him: _"I will not forget you, Cassandra. I will return for you." _He had said those words with such certainty, such belief.. But like all men, he was a liar, a user, a thief of love. That had been days ago, and Cassandra had been little more than a shell since. Every night she closed her eyes, determined that the next day would be her last in this gods-awful place, but somehow she never managed to place her foot outside the door. She always felt so tired, so weary. She couldn't remember ever having felt this exhausted and dull, not even after-

A noise caught her attention, pulling her back from the fog. Cassandra watched from her gloom as the children played in the garden, chasing geckos as they ran quickly across the tiles, their screams of laughter filling the air.

Cassandra watched Eris, small, blonde and heathy - just like she had been, once. The girl was brave for her age, and notoriously precocious. More than once Cassandra has caught the child being scolded for climbing through windows, stealing lemon cakes or speaking out of turn. She supposed she should be shocked, but she didn't have the energy, and although the girl's bluntness pained her, it also made her smile. A shard of fresh pain, just enough to keep the wound fresh but not enough to rip it open, that was what was delivered everytime she looked at Eris. But Cassandra couldn't remove herself from the child completely, as much as she tried to.

Her mind returned to the present as one of her hostess' slaves walked up from the washroom, her arms laden with clean linen. Cassandra watched the scene play out, even though it horrified her. She couldn't seem to stop it, somehow.

The slave lumbered up the path, handicapped and blinded by the huge pile of washing she carried. She couldn't see the small lizard, couldn't have known it was there. She trod on it, catching it's tail under her foot. The slave girl squealed, instinct causing her to jump up, her clean laundry falling like ghosts around her, around Eris.

She watched the little girl cry out in anger as her play thing ran away, darting into a crack in the stone, lost forever to the little girl and her games. Her eyes widened as she dumbly watched the tiny child began to hit the slave, her high childish voice cursing the older girl, berating her and blaming her.

In a moment, faster than she knew she could move, Cassandra was on the girl, her thin fingers biting into her chubby arms. Eris whined in pain and surprise as Cassandra pulled her off the slave and put her over her knee, bringing her palm down hard across Eris' backside, three times. The child sobbed, but it was over quickly.

Cassandra lifted her up, and stood the child so they could face each other, eye to eye. Eris' cheeks were flushed and her normally dark green eyes shone like emeralds from the tears she had spilt, and yet she look Cassandra in the eye, and stopped her grizzling as quickly as she had begun it.

_She looks just like her father._

That night Cassandra packed up their clothes and belongings, thanked her hostess as politely as custom required and left Tevinter, taking her daughter with her.

* * *

><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	24. Chapter 24

**9.21 Dragon**

**Edigius' Manor, Minrathous**

It was hot. Not as hot as he knew it would eventually become, but even this early in the year the air was heavy and thick, and tasted of pollen. The top of his head felt almost uncomfortably warm, and he rolled down the sleeves of his robe to avoid burning. He had read that in Nevarra the men wrapped their heads in lengths of tightly coiled cloth to protect them from the heat. There had even been a small woodcut showing an example, but when he had tried to recreate it on himself he had become hopeless entangled. Varania had laughed at him for almost ten full minutes, and even now she would look at him and giggle. It was one of the jokes they shared, along with her first experiments in wearing house shoes. He still smiled when he recalled her slipping and skating along the polished stone floors.

Happy and warm, Callum lazed on his bench in the rosary; since Wintersun he had taken to coming here to escape. He had enjoyed watching the garden change over the last three months, a fact that surprised and, to his masculine sense of shame, delighted him. He guarded his secret closely, fearful of the teasing he would receive from the few friends he has managed to make since arriving last autumn. The Maker alone knew what Hadriana would make of his sojourns, but Callum glumly expected she would find an inventive way to use it against him.

The rose trees, which had been little more than bare stalks, were now bushy with acid green leaves concealing tightly coiled buds. Inexperienced with regards to gardens, the young apprentice found himself resisting the temptation to get onto his knees to inspect the microscopic world of the flower-beds. His house in Asariel, like most in the tall, cramped city, had only had a small courtyard, almost constantly in shade and unable to grow anything more than hardy, flowerless ferns and bushes.

Changeable as the wind, Callum's current fantasy was of a small farm house at the foot of the Anderfells, with a thatched roof and a garden of riotous colours. The air would hum with the sound of bees as they flitted from flower to flower, a soft bass that was interspersed with the chitter of birds and the quiet sound of Varania singing. Somewhere there would be children too, running through the fields, lost in games of princes and archons.

Wild and reckless in his wants, the only constant in Callum's mind was Varania. The young man was still intemperate and spoilt a trait that hadn't yet been knocked out of him, despite his clear subordinate status to Hadriana. But then, to be dominated there has to be allowance, a tacit agreement that for whatever arbitrary reason the person exerting control is more deserving, more powerful, and more important that you will ever be. For the slaves this acceptance was bred in, passed along from generation to generation through the fearful chiding of parents to their children when they spoke out of turn, wandered into the wrong room or failed in a task. A child of a slave grew up knowing the there was a force, a being that was so inconceivably dominant event their mother or father was afraid of it. By the time they were physically mature enough to rebel their psyche had been set; they had been trained and socialised into cage from which they simply did not have the resources to escape.

It was harder for Callum to bow down to his fate. He respected Hadriana in a perverse way, and he wanted to learn from her, but he couldn't shake the habits of a lifetime. Callum would always put his own immediate desires above anything else - with, perhaps, the exception of Varania. He took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes and allowing the sweet smell of the earth and leaves to calm him. The soil must have recently been turned; its peaty scent reminding him of the forest and the day he had met her.

A small smile drifted over his face and, finding it was welcome there, became a grin. The sun was warm on his skin, soothing him into drowsiness. Somewhere a bird was singing. Even closed his eyelids felt heavy, his head lolling loosely on his shoulders as his body relaxed. Images of Varania trawled across his imagination, and he wondered if she had left their room that day.. He would convince her later.. After lesson..

o0o

Hadriana didn't even look up as he crashed through the door, his face flushed from running and, perhaps, embarrassment. She did however sigh heavily as he slammed his bulk down into the opposite chair.

"You truly are an inspiration," she commented idly, snapping her book closed. Callum didn't respond, he had learned not to speak to when her voice took on that cold, casual tone. And, sure enough, she continued her thought, as uninterested in him as ever. "Every day you manage to further instruct me in the ways of incompetence. Your depth of knowledge in the field is simply staggering. You have a leaf in your hair."

Flustered and sweating, Callum reached up to his tangled mop of hair, rooting unsuccessfully around the knotty curls until he saw the thin smile on the bitch's face. He felt the blush spread further across his cheeks, and tried hard to swallow the humiliation that threatened to overwhelm him.

He despised her. He had never known anything like it, the way the venom of his hatred coursed through his veins whenever he so much as thought about her, causing a bitter taste in his mouth and a heavy weight to settle on his chest. And there she sat, smiling at her little prank, her skin cool and clean while he was hot and flushed, her hair tied neatly in a long braid while his was mussed up with sleep, her wit sharp and cruel, his blunt and clumsy..

But worse was her Ability. She was beyond magnificent when she cast. He had been mesmerized when he had first seen her channel her power into the dead body of one of the slaves. Even when the corpse had twitchingly clambered to its feet, it's blank face turned to her for instruction, he had found he couldn't take his eyes of her. It had been _effortless_, as natural as breathing - more natural, it had seemed to him then. And he knew that he needed her to teach him, though he would never be as good, no matter how hard or long he studied. He wondered sometimes, late at night when Varania slept, if he perhaps didn't loathe her most for that admiration she invoked in him.

Now he sat across from her in the long cool library, exerting all his self-control not to wipe that insipid smile off her face. Callum wasn't particularly chivalrous; rather, he understood Hadriana would have him pinned to the wall, or worse, before he even raised his fist.

"A tumble in the hay with your ragged princess, mm?", she uttered through her smile before allowing a deliberately visible shudder to run through her. "On second thoughts, please do not answer that question. I've only just eaten."

He met her gaze, concentrating hard on keeping his feelings hidden. She regarded him coolly, her expression a perfect study of bored indifference, waiting to see if he would react. He stared back. Goosebumps crawled up his arms, but he didn't move. A small frown marred her forehead for a moment and then was gone. Callum resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief. He couldn't help but feel he had bested her somehow, and the giddy sense of his triumph caused him, for a second, to lose his caution.

"We won't be casting today," she informed him, her voice clipped and business-like. "I have been studying and am tired, as apparently are you. What would you like to review instead?"

"Maker! Whatever it is that has stumped _you_! That's what I'd like to study!" The ill-thought exclamation was out of Callum's mouth before he could halt it; the second it was uttered he wished he could pull it back inside him. _Too late._He hadn't meant it to sound the way it had, he had simply been amazed that she had even admitted to a difficultly, let alone to him.

Now she was looking across at him, her expression motionless. Callum swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry and constricted. It was like staring into the sun, he knew he should look away and yet somehow he couldn't. _N_o, no.. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff, feeling the pull to jump. _Apologise, look away - do something_! His mind screamed at him, yet his body would not listen. And then suddenly she smiled at him, a bright wide smile that didn't reach her eyes. Callum braced himself.

"Yes, a good question. And perhaps you, dear Callum, can help me?", her words cut towards him like a shark's fin, a warning that danger lurked beneath. But what could he do? He was adrift in uncharted waters, miles from land. Callum ran his hand through his hair, and attempted to swim to shore.

"Of course. If I can help you in any way at all it would be my pleasure," he said slowly, testing the waters, watching her expression closely.

"Would it, indeed?" she mused, her gaze never leaving his increasingly flushed face. "That is _good _to hear. Such a relief. I had worried that we were not friends.."

And there is was. She let the unspoken question hang in the air, watching him intently, the smile still sitting unnaturally on her lips. Callum looked into her eyes, and saw nothing but his own fear reflected back at him. She betrayed nothing, no signs of mockery, of amusement, of anger. She just sat and smiled at him, waiting to see what he would do.

"Not friends? Nonsense! We are firm friends, the best of friends... I hope?" Callum grinned madly. The falseness of his enthusiasm would have been comical if it hadn't been so desperate.

A small shrug of her shoulders was the only reply she gave. She watched him, her lips pursed. Callum didn't dare move or look away. Hadriana seemed to reach a decision.

"I have been studying the elves, a subject I know is dear to your heart," she began, her eyes still fixed on him, watching his reaction. "I find that I need to learn about their lore. Unfortunately it seems that our books and scrolls are rather.. cursory, shall we say? The book I really need is not located in the Senate library and, as even you must be aware, I am unable to leave the city for any length of time while our lord is so very unwell."

Relief washed over Callum like a waterfall, refreshing him and waking him from his panic. Here was a Maker-given opportunity, something that only he could provide and which the bitch was actually asking for! He tried and failed to keep the edge of smugness out of his voice, "I can certainly help you with that, my lady. I am extremely knowledgeable on the subject. In fact, if you would like, I could even teach you a little of their language. It is quite melodic, though obviously not suited for more than the simplest of functions."

Hadriana regarded him, noting the change in his tone and the way his lips battled against the smile that tugged at their corners. _I am going to enjoy this, such a shame such moments can't be bottled. _"Actually, I had rather hoped to go straight to the source, as it were."

The smile slid from his face. Hadriana hope she wouldn't forget that moment, as the light of realisation dawned and his expression curdled; these are the moments to treasure, after all.

"You mean you want to talk to Varania?" he asked dumbly, knowing the answer, knowing the usual outcome of Hadriana's talks with the elves but hoping that, somehow, he has misunderstood.

"Why yes, why not? It seems circuitous to have you tell me half understood tip-bits when I can just as easily have your slave explain it to me, from the horse's mouth as it were. Is there an issue?"

_Yes there's an issue damn you! I've seen what you do to them, and you expect me to hand Varania over to you? _But Callum knew he couldn't confront her. If he did he would offend her and no doubt place himself, Varania and even Aryion in as much danger as he would if he refused her. Swallowing thickly, he spoke with the measured care of a military physician removing shrapnel from their captain's wound: "No, no of course not. I'm sure Varania will be delighted to help you... Only, Hadriana.."

"Yes, my friend?"

Callum could hear the mockery in her voice, the way she managed to belie any hope he might have of sincerity in her words. He ploughed on, none the less. "Varania is very.." he sought for the right word, the phrase she would understand, "useful to me. It would be troublesome to have to replace her."

Hadriana stared at him, her pale fingers steeped and resting under her chin. Then of all unnatural eventualities she _w_inked at him, and with that Callum had to content himself.

o0o

Much later, Callum had walked into the bedroom and felt his dark mood instantly lift when he had seen his most beautiful possession standing in the clothes he had bought for her, her deep red hair warmed by the sun streaming through the high windows.

She had been angry, but it hadn't diminished the effect she had on him. They had walked in the gardens, and he had pointed out all the little changes that had kept him so fascinated over the previous three months. She had smiled, more at him than the transformations he showed her, laughing at his unexpected enthusiasm for tiny shoots and spring buds. Callum laughed and joked, feigning hurt when she teased him, letting his natural wit and personality carry the afternoon into the evening. He had always been a jolly boy, quick to smile and ready to laugh. And yet, no matter how much he tried he couldn't shake the shadow at his back.

_What would Hadriana do when she got her hands on Varania?_

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><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

**The Fade**

"_They are coming. This one can feel them, but does not know if he is among the group," the spirit doesn't grumble. It doesn't understand annoyance or frustration, but it's voice takes on a deeper tone that, in a human, would be mistake for such a feeling. "These wretched ghosts, will they never stop banging their swords against their shields! How can this one concentrate, when they clamour so? Do they not understand their role in the way the world must be?"_

_Through the flickering blue light of the portal the voice arrives, hallow like the speaker is lost miles underground. But it is still recognisable, its silky smooth texture marred by the stain of its true nature. "Who comes?" The question arrives fast and urgent, travelling via one of the many doorways used by the inhabitants of this pseudo landscape. _

_The Fade is riddled with such wormholes, backdoors and tunnels that allow them to traverse the territory, some to escape the humans, others to court them. Since the Maker abandoned his country, the land of dreams has been a forgotten waste, populated only by dreamers, the dead, and the spirits who had once known peace there. The land of dreams had once been a heaven from the world, a poem and a love letter from the Maker to all his children, a reflection of the promises He made to them made real. Now it is fractured and torn, beautiful perhaps like a broken mirror, but no longer fit for purpose. The spirit stands near the battlements of the castle, its body straight and to attention. This is how the spirit knows it must stand. _

_The spirit concentrates, trying to focus despite the growing commotion that surrounds it, a riot that is only awaiting the right word to take full effect. "This one cannot … there is a dwarf, the land distorts around him, he is like a rock in a river, he blocks the tide, he angers the earth. Can you not sense it?" The dwarf is painful, unwelcome and unexpected. The flow of the land, the song that guides and protects the spirit becomes silent in the presence of the dwarf. It is worse than blindness; it is complete absence. Where there should have been the silvery slight threads that lay like patchwork over the world, directing it and channelling it, there is simply silence. _

_"We are too far from you, this one senses only that they live, and they are here." The hybrid, distant voice for a moment sounds uncertain, "This party is so small. We must know, is he among them?"_

_"There is an elf, and two humans. They are polluted, tarnished." _

_"This should not affect the way the world must be," the voice returns strong once again, as if there was never a moment of doubt. The spirit does not wonder at this, nor is it dismayed. It is not human and does not need to be reassured by a strong hand the way they seem to; moments of weakness in its allies do not cause it waiver in its beliefs, and it knows that it's partners feel the same. The four of them have always felt the same, have always seen the truth that blinds their world with its brightness. _

_"We do not require he lives long," the voice continues, "merely long enough."_

_The party of mortals moves closer. Now the spirit can hear the song, discordant and bastardised perhaps, but it is there, it is enough. "There is a mage in the party," focusing the spirit strains to hear the subtle shifts in the tone and rhythm, but the landscape is muted and dull and it cannot focus. "He is a mage, but is he the one we seek…" the spirit wonders, knowing the answer cannot be given by his companions._

_"If it is not the one we have prepared.." the voice drifts into silence. _

_If it is not the one they have prepared then all is lost. The four have waited they know not how long. They have watched the human lands fall to each other, and have worked hard to manoeuvre the world into its current shape. And yet, everything is so delicate. The mage is but one strand in the weave, but it must be him, and it must be now if they are to succeed. There have been difficulties. The Magister is an issue, though the spirit's companions were shaping and crafting the Tevinter with a finesse that bordered on the beautiful: drifting through time, through his dreams, leading him as a horse is led. Keeping him away from the warrior is a problem larger than they had predicted, but nevertheless they were succeeding. __The warrior himself is, thankfully, following their design nigh perfectly. And yet now it is possible that the mage who approaches is not the one they have groomed. _

_"The Blight has disrupted the way the world must be?" the spirit asks, it's voice betraying no anxiety though the unspoken question is understood – are we too late?_

_The crowd are openly jeering now, throwing rocks and clumps of earth over the tall gate. Soon the fight will begin. The spirit turns to watch them as they rile themselves up, each taking courage from the empty bravado of his kinsman. Not for the first time the spirit wonders at the choice of the Maker, to give the world to such howling beasts, little more than animals fighting and rutting their way to the grave. There is no parity, no -_

_"Perhaps.", the voice continues, cutting across the spirit's train of thought. "It is difficult to understand the time, the time moves.. it is rigid and yet it seems to be constantly in flight, it is hard to follow it in the way the humans do. But this one is told that all is not lost. Hope remains, though Faith has left."_

_The spirit turns to face the pale blue light of the portal, "Faith succeeded?"_

_"In every way. Faith is now in place. She awaits her moment, and thus awaits only us."_

_"Has she recounted… what is it like to be?" The spirit does not try to check the desire in its voice, understanding how futile the attempt would be._

_"Yes. She says it is all we wish for, it is everything you knew it to be and more." The voice, soft like silk, drops low as it speaks those words, and the thick heady thrum of its lust drifts through the portal, arousing the spirit as it takes in the words. There is a moment of silence; the space between the locations of the two is filled with their need. The spirit rallies, though the sense of it's desires is now strong in it. "The way the world must be, for the forgotten children. I am unable still to sense the manner of the mage who approaches. The dwarf, he distorts the world."_

_"Hope says… Hope says he is here. This one trusts."_

_"This one trusts also."_

_"I," the voice reminds the spirit, not unkindly. "I trust. Do not forget."_

_"Yes… I trust." The spirit's answer is slow. It tastes the unfamiliar word, trying to create a sense of individual self that it has never experienced before. Its identity had, until it had met the others, always been fixed, tethered to the world and deaf to all but the music. Now it is aware of itself and, like it's companions, the spirit finds the sensation both confusing and exhilarating. It knows now that it is distinct from the world around it, that it is not of the land of dreams in the way it had always believed. The spirit was awoken, and looked at the world of men and the land of the dreams and had understood immediately what needed to be changed. The spirit had not needed to be convinced to rebalance the scales. "I will not forget," it says the unfamiliar word again with more conviction, "I will not fail."_

_"You understand the way the world must be." The voice confirms, knowing it to be true. "They approach?"_

_"Yes.. they are attracted by the noise of this rabble. They bark at the gate like dogs, unaware they are neutered and emasculated. But it attracts the group, it attracts the mage." _

_"And Pride?" _

_"This one- I have met with Pride." _

_"Then there was no covenant." It is not a question, the voice knows the answer already. Too often in the past they had attempted to recruit their kinsfolk to their cause, and too often they had met with disappointment or betrayal, more so when dealing with the Pride spirits. The spirit recalls all too keenly the anger it had felt when the last Pride spirit they had dealt with had betrayed them, taking the body of the Warden and hiding from them in the land of awakening like the craven it is. The spirit remembers how it had watched its companions work tirelessly to prepare the woman, to pitch her hopes, her desires and her faith in herself so perfectly that when Pride had visited her she had accept him gladly. The spirit remembers, and does not mourn the fact that this new Pride spirit is so similar to it's kin. The spirit finds it hopes that, when it too is in the land of awakening, it may cross paths with Sophia Dryden, the cave in which the Pride spirit continues to hide._

_"No. We were denied." The spirit confirms, it's voice level. It's desires are known to the voice, it does not need to speak them aloud. "Perhaps this is what we need however. The humans, they will rally to the cause of their brethren, and they will see me distinct, anew; I am not Pride, they will not call me demon. The mage... He is the one."_

_"You are certain?"_

_The spirit smiles. "I can feel your influence in him. He desires freedom, he desires revenge, he desires respect, love, sex. He is unaware how deeply these desires run, how they influence him. It is.. Magnificent. You have made him desire justice for the trespasses against him, imagined and actual. He hates the world and pities himself."_

_The voice sighs, the sound travelling through the Fade like a kiss, "This one thanks you. Now you must sate his desire, he must succumb. We step closer to our goal, and this one envies you your role. Remember what you need to accomplish." The pitch of the voice rose, as all that needed to be done looms heavy between them. "The Hero must open the door, The Champion must be divided, the consecrated order must fall-"_

_"I understand, do not fear my failure." The spirit interrupts. They all share the same anxieties, but it does them no good to dwell on them. For a moment, the spirit remembers a time when all it had felt was the song; anger when the humans invaded the land, disrupting the tune, and desire when a mage enter the Fade, bringing their own symphony with them. But the spirit does not bemoan its new understanding. Without knowing the disparity, it would not be able to recognise what justice was. The way the world must be. That is what is important. "Look to the warrior," he counselled the voice, "His preparation is the cornerstone now. "_

_"Do you doubt us?" the voice responded without rancour._

_"I am committed in the way the world must be, as I know you both to be. I do not doubt. I only seek to acknowledge the difficulty in the attempt. The mage and his companions are apon me. I will speak to you once it is done."_

_The voice accepts what the spirit says, there is no reasons to believe they would mislead each other. _

_"Go well, Justice. Our will is with you in our endeavour."_

_"And mine with you", the spirit replies._

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><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

**9.31 Dragon**

**Darktown, Kirkwall**

"Remind me again why we are here, mage."

Startled, Hawke looked up from his boots to see that Fenris had pulled back from the group and was now walking slowly next to him, letting the dwarf and his brother pull further ahead. Hawke knew he should have been at the front, joking and jollying everyone along, but he hated Darktown. He hated the questions it drew from him, the way it made him feel nostalgic for his home and his childhood, neither of which existed any more. So today he had decided to follow, silent and sullen. And now, of all unfair and ridiculous things, his loudest critic had chosen now to spend some quality time together. _The Maker has a sense of humour_, the bitter thought darted across his mind.

"Fame and fortune?" he replied with a weak smile. As novel as it was to be spoken to by the elf of his own volition, Hawke had too many doubts of his own to entertain Fenris'. He hoped the other man would take the hint, or if not would at least stalk away under a cloud of indignation, as he so often did after to speaking to Hawke. Instead Fenris made an ugly sound, somewhere between a snort and a growl, but to Hawke's surprise and annoyance did not move away.

"What?" he snapped, knowing he would begin a fight by rising to the elf's bait but not caring. Anything to take his mind off his surroundings, or at least so he told himself.

"It seems the mages in the south have the same desires as those in the north," the other man sighed, his head turning slightly towards Hawke as they walked side by side. Hawke could see the way his naturally large eyes narrowed as he spoke, and wondered why the elf always insisted on looking directly at him when he insulted him. It wasn't that Hawke didn't appreciate the gesture, such as it was.. it just struck him that for the elf it was something of great importance, and Hawke, young and confident, didn't understand why.

"I'd try to deny it, but maybe you're right?" Hawke replied, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "I already have a lyrium covered elf. It seems all I need is a big hat and a taste for orgies and they'll be welcoming me into the fold with open arms." Hawke watched with interest as the other man's tattoos flared slightly, a sign he had learnt to associate with moments of anger or distress for the elf. Then, surprisingly, Hawke saw the corners of the other man's mouth turn up. Fenris muttered something in Arcanium which made him laugh under his breath. Hawke almost bit through his tongue as he resisted the urge to ask the elf what was so funny, both knowing and not wanting to know the answer.

Both men fell silent, but Fenris kept pace with Hawke's dull trudge.

Hawke let his eyes wander away from the Tevinter next to him to admire another Imperial creation. Darktown was well named, Hawke grudgingly admitted to himself as they traipsed through the muddy streets. The underground tunnels and quarries had been claimed decades ago by the destitute, penny-uprights and outlaws and as a result now could, with a level of complicity, be described as the third district of Kirkwall. There was no natural light, but lanterns were placed at regular intervals, casting a tarnished, phosphorous light that unfortunately did little to mask Darktown's origins. There was no way to know what hour the bells were chiming above ground; the under city kept its own clock and its own rules. The lack of anything resembling natural light forced unwary visitors to squint as they searched for landmarks in a space never designed to be seen by anything other than the shit, literal and metaphorical, Kirkwall flushed away. The air was dirty with pollution and the evil, poisonous chokedamp swilled away any goodness, causing a bitter taste on the tongue if one were foolish enough to breathe through their mouth.

He glanced sideways at Fenris, but the elf wasn't paying him or their surroundings any attention. He didn't seem to need to look where he was going in order to get there; his shoulders were always slightly hunched and he had a habit of casting his eyes downwards when he walked, yet he never stumbled or lost the group. For a second Hawke thought he might be more comfortable down here in the dark, but he dismissed the notion with a shake of head. The Tevinter glanced over at him, attracted by the small movement but saying nothing, and soon Hawke's mind drifted again.

In general Hawke didn't miss Ferelden, the land of his birth, but whenever he was forced to travel down into the labyrinthine subterranean city under Kirkwall proper he felt as truly lost and alone as any of his fellow refugees, more and more of whom still poured into the city.

The Blight had ended almost five weeks ago, but the number of people washing up at the Gallows' dock was increasing, not decreasing. Every day boats jettied scores of children, widows or the elderly, none with the resources or strength to survive the devastation the darkspawn had left in their wake. Most died within the first few weeks, either from fever caught on the ships or to Darktown's own brand of 'natural causes': the wrong word said, the wrong alley walked down, the wrong card played. Those that survived longer tended to do so because they were amoral and opportunistic. The city was breeding for viciousness; more worryingly, it was succeeding.

Looking around at the group he travelled with, the young Ferelden wondered how far removed from that process they were: an apostate mage, a profiteering dwarf, a teenage boy with an anger management problem and an escaped slave who seemed to hate everything and everyone; none of them could claim to be virtuous, but were they the same as the thieves and murderers who exerted increasing control over the winding sub-city? Aveline, his great friend and confident, spent less and less time with him since he had left servitude but remained in the 'business', as it were. _She_ had joined the guard. Hawke had never been particularly reflective, but he found he couldn't stop comparing himself to the low-lives he met as a result of his work as a fixer. There was increasingly little contrast between him and them, a thought that kept him awake at night more surely than the hard wooden floor of his uncle's main room.

"You seem deep in thought. Is it too much to hope that you are revising your plan to engage the services of yet another apostate?" Fenris asked, his tone resigned.

_Why bother asking when you know you won't like the answer? _Hawke wanted to say. Instead he sighed overly loudly, and then immediately felt childish and stupid. He should just ignore the elf, or else catch up with his brother and Varric - whose blighted idea this whole thing was anyway. But he found himself answering, despite his misgivings. "We need the maps, unless you want to end up trapped miles underground with Varric's Maker-awful brother?"

"I can think of worse things to be trapped with," Fenris replied without pause.

_Maker! Doesn't he ever let up? _Hawke's father had always tried to teach him to think before he spoke, but like so many of Malcolm's well-meaning lessons, little had stuck.

"Meaning what, exactly?" Hawke snapped back. If his brother Carver had been closer he would at this point have attempted to separate the two men. Or perhaps he wouldn't have; Hawke never knew whose side Carver was on.

"I hear there are any number of beasts in the Deep Roads, in addition to the darkspawn," Fenris answered mildly, his expression carefully blank. "I would hate it if you missed your opportunity for an orgy. Or a hat," he added as an after-thought.

_He's making fun of me, _Hawke realised.

"I'm glad we've found something we agree on." And then, because Hawke was nothing if not a chancer, he decided to fish. "Although… I've never attended an orgy before – unless the Jacobs twins count, which I'm told they don't. Would any hat do? In your experience?"

Fenris glanced across at him from behind his fringe, his face carefully wooden. Hawke was about to press him for an answer, his heart suddenly thumping like a war drum… But then he didn't, and the moment drifted away in silence. Hawke filed that away to be considered later, when he had a drink in his hand and, Maker willing, a girl on his lap. He had never been lost for words before... the experience was… _interesting_, he decided.

Hawke had found he could survive Lowtown, much to his surprise, but he hated Darktown. If you had said to him two years ago that he would not only have left the small hold his family had called home since he was a boy of elven, but that he would also be living across the waters, sleeping on the floor of his uncle's two roomed hovel in Kirkwall.. Well, he'd have laughed in your face, bought you a drink and, if you had been pretty - hell, willing - enough, probably lifted you up and had you against the wall.

That was another thing. It had been months since he had so much as brushed hands with another, let alone anything further. Once he had been in demand, and had had his pick of the local boys and girls. His mouth turned up as he remembered Fiona, grubby, big breasted and willful. She had run him around the town, flirting him into recklessness and, ultimately, trouble with his parents. She had been his first. Her hair had been light, her eyes dark and when he had finally got her into bed she had tasted of rosehip and smelled of elderflower. He had been all of fifteen, and had thought himself at the time to be very much the man. His father had died three years later, and since then he hadn't been so sure.

Life used to be an adventure, that much was true enough. Lothering had been his kingdom, and he the lord of a scrabble of local boys, some older and some younger, all full of life, energy and the happy stupidity of youth. The air had been fresh, and the scent of cow dung and harvest had hung on the wind. They had run in muddy boots and thickly woven wools through the fields and across the streams, fighting dragons and kings.

Back then it had seemed that the horizon had been a thousand miles away, a promise and a barrier all in one. When he thought of Lothering now it was always Harvest, always sunset. In his imagination the rolling fields were forever golden yellow, fat bales of straw and hay decorating them like dropped kisses. Across the fields giant, furry footed shire-horses always pulled carts heavy with wheat, barley and vegetables. In his memory winter was continuously just around the corner, but life was good and they were ready for the cold.

_How stupid I am._ He knew it was just a memory - no, not even that. It was a fantasy. Life on a farm was unforgiving and relentless. For every moment he had snatched for himself there had been hundreds spent in dreadful monotony. And that was just for the normal children. For Hawke and his sister there had been the additional labour of hiding what they were from everyone outside their family, the lessons that ran on long after the sun had set as they learnt not to rely on their magic, not to reach for it automatically when panic or fear took hold of them. As they had learnt most importantly to hide, the ever present specter of the Chantry and its Templars casting a shadow over every aspect of their lives.

And now he was in Darktown. The place was too marginalised to even be a slum - Hells, even the Alienage was cleaner and safer. Hawke, a man so quick with words, had no way to describe the tunnels and large open vaults in which so many conducted their lives. Gangs that had once eked out a living on the periphery were now firmly in control of the under city. Hawke had made bets with Varric how long it would take before Lowtown and eventually Hightown succumbed to the mostly unchecked rise of the Coterie. They had laughed at first, but after three weeks of taking any job going to raise funds for their planned expedition they had noticed the jobs get meaner, and the fights deadlier. They kept their bet, but they had stopped laughing.

"Why did you come to Kirkwall?" Hawke blurted out, as surprised by the question as the Tevinter next to him. Fenris stopped walking, and for the first time since they had met seemed to genuinely think about his answer. Standing next to each other in the unhealthy yellow light, Hawke noticed that if Fenris stood straight he would only be a little shorter than him. Most elven men barely reached up to his shoulders. _I could rest my head on his..._

Fenris coughed, an uneasy expression on his face. If Hawke had been a better man he might have changed the subject, but instead he kept his silence and waited. The warrior shifted his weight from one bare foot to another, but after a second he spoke. "I.. I thought perhaps the city might be.." he ran his hand through his hair, letting his fringe mask his face before he continued. "I don't know.. Lucky, I suppose."

"Lucky? I've heard Kirkwall called many things, but never lucky."

Fenris shrugged, his markings glowing faintly green in the lamp light. "What about you? Why did you choose Kirkwall for your family?"

"Believe it or not I didn't. My mother suggested it."

"Ah. That is unexpected. You don't seem like the type to follow.. Your mother must be quite exceptional." Fenris was actually smiling now, a sly sort of half smile that caused his eyes to crinkle at the edges. It occurred to Hawke suddenly that the elf was probably much older than he was. But then, so were Varric and Aveline.

"Well, she promised me an estate."

Fenris cocked a black eyebrow at that, but he didn't question it. Probably he thought it was just another throw away little line. Hawke and his family had in truth been lucky, a fact that was never far from his mind. His uncle may have lost the family money, but he had given them a roof and kept them out of Darktown, and for all that he was a whorer and a gambler Hawke felt grateful for that.

The situation in the city of chains was becoming more desperate with every passing day. There was no honest work, and although Kirkwall did not rely on Ferelden for foodstuffs, the loss of so many farms was still felt. the Chantry and the City Council did little to manage the deficit, and the Guard was corrupt. In addition to this, the dwarven city of Orzammar was still recovering from its near miss with civil war, and trade had slowed to a trickle, despite the new king's promises to open the doors to commerce. Surely word must have reached Ferelden that Kirkwall's gates were closed?

Or, Hawke glumly acknowledged, life was so hard there that the long journey across the Waking Sea and the uncertain reception from the cities of the Free Marches was, unbelievably, a safer option. He had heard that Lothering had been burnt to the ground, the earth tainted for generations.

He hadn't yet decided how he felt about that. His family, such as was left to him, had made it out to Kirkwall, so there was no reason other than sentiment to feel anything, and Hawke was not a sentimental man. At twenty two, he had been shaped by necessity into a criminal. Or, at least, so he told himself. So, for the most part, he focused on his life in Kirkwall. He had managed to keep his family away from the injustices and humiliations experienced by the majority of refugees, though to his shame he found himself feeling a sense of gratitude that it was he and his brother had survived their escape from the Blight. They were both able to work and fight and keep his mother out of harm. If Carver had died instead of Bethany, Hawke wondered how well two mages, always with one eye over their shoulder for Templars, would have managed. There was no love lost between Hawke and Carver, but he was grateful for his sword, if not for his petulance.

He hated those thoughts, but he couldn't seem to stop them. He was a mage, but then so had his father and sister been. It had never really seemed real to him, or at least not in the way it had to Malcolm, his father. Maker, they had argued about it. Hawke's magic had always just been there, like his arms and legs. And like all natural attributes he had never really paid it any attention. He knew he was talented, his lessons with his sister had taught him that, even as Malcolm had tried to teach him to fear his power. But he had never had to bear the responsibility for their status because his father has shouldered that burden. But Malcolm Hawke had died, and then so had Bethany and now here he was, walking through the gutters to meet another apostate mage in the hopes of fortune.

Gold. That was the answer. If they had money they could buy safety, and he could relax, and grieve. So here he was, Garret Hawke, irresponsible, arrogant, and now, years before he had expected, head of the Hawke family.. Hawke was barely out of teens, a fact often forgotten due to his size and confidence. Tall and muscular, especially for a mage, he thought quickly and spoke faster. Hawke was a country boy, and contrary to popular misconception was at least as savvy and worldly wise as any city-born man in his early twenties could hope to be. He had worked the land, hard back-breaking labour, and had also worked the girls - a different type of labour, but hard none the less. Country _girls_ did not "drop 'em for a sovereign", whatever the bards may say. But a pretty flower and a nice word? Hawke had learnt that trick early on, and had practiced it until he now knew how to work his way around people and problems others would find unsurpassable. And yet he was aware in the back of his mind that he was only guessing. He was playing a terrifying roulette with the futures of those he loved, but he didn't know any other way to play the game. So he bet hard, and kept raising the stakes.

The only person who recognised this was the elf. Fenris. With his strange tattoos and stranger attitudes.

Hawke turned his attention from one fruitless self inspection to another, and watched the elf from the corner of his eye, careful not to be too obvious. Not that Fenris was paying him any attention; their moment of rapport seemed to have ended. Fenris' hair was slightly greasy, and Hawke wondered if that made the elf uncomfortable. The Tevinter always seemed clean and well presented to Hawke, but then so did most elves when compared to men.

His sword was at his back, almost as long as the elf was tall. But he had no trouble carrying it for hours, and certainly wielded it with a terrifying ease and grace. Hawke's gaze dropped to the other man's arms, trying to work out how he was even able to lift such a weapon. He was muscled and toned, that much was obvious to anyone with eyes and the inclination to stare at the elf - a habit Hawke was finding hard to break. But Hawke had seen the type of men who fielded two handed great-swords – Void take him, his brother was such a man, and Carver was built like stone outhouse. Fenris, however, was slender as a boy and graceful as a dancer.

Varric and he had talked at length about this strange tattooed slave that they had let into their party, and had decided that his seemingly inexhaustible strength must be a result of the Lyrium that twisted and snaked over his body. Varric thought he was too damaged, even for their bizarre band of misfits, to be given quarter. The dwarf had warned Hawke not to trust "the mage hating Lyrium infused super soldier". He had said it with a smile, but it had been a warning nevertheless.

Hawke, for the most part, had decided almost instantly how he felt about Fenris, but the fact that he knew his feelings did not mean he was resigned to them. The night they had met he had been intrigued, despite his anger at being lied to. He hadn't expected the elf to be waiting for them outside the Magister's house, but there he had been, radiating anger and... Something else.

Hawke still wasn't convinced, but if had been forced to make a bet he would have said the elf was afraid. Either way, Hawke had found himself not only accepting the strange Tevinter's half assed explanations regarding his fugitive status, but actually flirting with him – "_A waste of a perfectly handsome elf." Maker, burn me._

Carver had not let him forget it, though a choice threat from Hawke had at least guaranteed the boy wouldn't bring it up again in public. And either way, it was clear that Fenris had no interest in him as a human being, let alone anything more. _Or at least, so it seemed before we started sharing jokes and secrets in Darktown. _The anger that until a moment ago had radiated of him whenever Hawke tried to strike up a conversation was palpable, and after a few days Hawke had simply stopped bothering. He wasn't even sure why he felt such a desire for the elf anyway. He had certainly never been interested in anyone so hard to please, and never entertained even the smallest association with those who so clearly hated what he was. That at least was one of his father's lessons that had stuck: _don't give them any ground, son. They will ask for an inch, but they'll take a mile._

_So why do you keep Fenris in your group?_ Hawke watched the way the other man walked through the tunnels. He moved so smoothly, every step precise and sure-footed, the muscles in his back outlined against the tight leather armour he always wore. Hawke tutted, knowing why he continued to bring the elf along with him, even though it was probably a disaster waiting to happen.

The first night they had met, after the shambolic raid on the Hightown mansion, Hawke had asked the elf if he could be trusted. "A mage asks if_ I_ can be trusted?" Fenris had scoffed in his deep, accented voice. "Rather, tell me. What manner of mage are _you_?"

Hawke had been impressed, despite himself. The only other person who had ever stood up to him so openly, so forcefully, had been his father. He had found himself answering in a deliberately antagonistic fashion, interested to see if the elf, who was so clearly in his debt, would continue to rail against him. Hawke hadn't been disappointed. The Tevinter had made no secret of his revulsion of Hawke and his magic, and Hawke had found himself suddenly the proud owner of an aching erection, much to his alarm. It had been his brother that had had the sense to challenge the elf's trustworthiness. How, Carver had demanded, could they trust him not to turn Hawke over to the Templars for a bag of silver?

Fenris had stared at the younger man, his eyes narrowed. "You don't," he had said through gritted teeth, "however, I have no desire to be returned to my former life." He had turned his attention back to Hawke, looking him up and down, lip curling in distaste. Hawke remembered how he had hoped his arousal wasn't visible through the cheap linen robes he had been wearing. Whether it had been or not, however, he had held his ground.

Hawke was a leader, whether the group were a bunch of rag tag farm hands or hired mercenaries; he wouldn't lose face because his cock didn't know when to keep its own blighted company. When the elf's gaze returned to meet Hawke's, his expression had been one of revulsion. But yet again Hawke had sensed that there had been fear behind his distain.

Hawke wondered as he trudged deeper into Darktown if it had been that hint of helplessness that had tipped the scales, and made him agree to the elf's sourly offered partnership. "I suggest that, since I cannot repay you for your 'aid' I instead work with you," he had offered in his unusually formal manner. "As you can see I am able to fight and it appears to me, if you are a man who will do anything for the promise of gold, a proficient fighter would be of use to you. In return I ask that, should another opportunity arise for me to kill my master you and your group assist me," he waved a hand vaguely towards Varric and Carver, but his eyes never left Hawke's, "With regards to you status as an apostate? I will not reveal you to the Templars if you will not reveal me to the authorities. There is a price on my head as much as on yours, I assure you."

That was almost a fortnight ago, and since then the elf had barely spoken to Hawke. But he had kept his word, and had saved each of their lives more than once. Hawke therefore had put his attraction and annoyance for the other man aside, and instead had concentrated on gathering the money they needed to finance their expedition. But that didn't stop him looking and wondering about the strange tattooed elf, especially here in the dark, when the ghosts came out to haunt him.

Varric broke through his thoughts, turning round from his conversation with Carver to let them know they were almost at the Warden's clinic. Hawke was surprised how far they'd walked, but then his thoughts had been elsewhere. He turned his attention away from the elf, and tried to work out how he would approach the Grey Warden when they met him. Hawke had no idea what kind of person they were going to find, here in the bowels of the city. What type of mage would, as an apostate, open up a free clinic, especially one so poorly hidden? But then, what type of man would break an oath, and desert his post?

They came to a flight of narrow wooden stairs, wide enough to only allow them to climb single file. Varric and Carver waited at the foot; it was obviously time for Hawke to take the lead again. He felt a pressure on his arm, and looking down saw Fenris' tanned hand holding him back. The tattoos the ran along his elegant fingers and up his arms were glowing brightly, not a sight Hawke had learnt to associate with pleasantries. He glanced towards Varric; the drawf was watching the scene with seemingly calm interest, but Hawke also noticed he had taken his crossbow from its holster. Carver was looking between his brother and the dwarf, obviously unsure what was happening.

"You've chosen an odd moment to launch your rebellion," Hawke said mildly, turning his gaze back to the elf. A look of confusion passed over the other man's features. "You're glowing," he clarified helpfully. Fenris shrugged, and brought his hand back to his side. The light from the lyrium instantly died, the tattoos dulling down to their dormant whiteness.

"I wish to ask you one last time to reconsider this course of action," Fenris said, his voice low enough that only Hawke could hear him. Strange, considered Hawke, that the man had no qualms undermining him at the top of his voice, but now he was talking to him like he was actually a person he felt the need to whisper.

Hawke took a step towards the elf. He had meant only to play along with the secrecy Fenris himself had initiated, but he paused as the lyrium gave off a warning flare. Fenris glowered at him, but the tattoos again died down.

"Do you control them?" Hawke asked, distracted by the mystery of the man in front of him.

"What?"

"The tattoos, do they behave like that on their own or do you control them? Only it'd be useful to know if you're actually about to pull my heart out or not."

Fenris blinked. A shadow passed over his face, and Hawke wondered what answer he would give. None, as it turned out.

"You are young. You react to things. I'm not convinced you know what you are stepping into, either in terms of your misguided expedition into the Deep Roads, or this current madness involving an apostate Grey Warden. A deserter, none the less. Has it occurred to you that this man will not be trustworthy?"

Hawke was nonplussed. Of course these things had occurred to him - but what choice did he have? And then the thought snuck unbidden into the back of his mind that it would be nice to have another mage around, since Bethany..

"I have. If you disagree with my decisions you're welcome to leave. I'll happily release you from your debt," Hawke added spitefully. The comment obviously struck home, judging from the way Fenris' eyes narrowed.

The two men glowered at each other. And then, to Hawkes great surprise, Fenris dropped into a graceful bow, extending his arms out towards the narrow staircase in a mockery of concession. He said something again in Arcanium, but this time he didn't laugh.

Hawke walked past him and up the stairs to meet Anders, the Grey Warden. Varric and Carver followed, the younger Hawke casting a glance over his shoulder at Fenris.

Fenris stood at the bottom of the stairs, and after a moment he was alone. Or, at least, his companions were no longer in sight; one was never alone in Darktown. In fact, Fenris was the focal point of one of the many young pick-pockets that worked the area. The urchin had been following the group for the last fifteen minutes or so, trying to assess whether they were worth the trouble. The two humans hadn't looked like much, but the dwarf and the elf were elaborately dressed and might, perhaps, have had a few coins. Then the elf and the human had argued, the knife ear had turned blue and now he was alone. He seemed like a perfect target, but the urchin was not stupid. She was nearly eight years old - she had learnt fast. So she hung back, watching the elf out of interest rather than as a possible mark.

He stood strangely. She had seen the stance before, but never down here. He was standing the way the Templars did when they were all out on parade: his posture was straight, his hands gently clasped behind his back. But he had bowed just now, and she had never seen the Templars do that.

Suddenly he said something that sounded extremely rude. The girl didn't speak Arcanium any more than Hawke did, but the language of cursing has always been universal. She suppressed a giggle, and repeated the odd sounding word a few times in her head. She could use it later, when he father came back drunk and, preferably, violent. It would make her brothers laugh.

She watched the elf shake his head, as if trying to clear it of a headache. She had heard you could make tiny holes in your head which let out the spirits that made you sick. Maybe that was what made the knife ear glow? She watched him take a long look back at the way he and his friends had come, but then he bounded up the stairs after them.

The urchin spotted a refugee, clearly lost and frightened. Plastering on her best smile, she went over to offer him some of Darktown's own brand of welcome.

* * *

><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNina<p> 


	27. Chapter 27

**9.20 Dragon**

**The Quarries, Neromenian**

Leto wiggled, trying to shuffle himself out of the rancid pool of brown, filmy water he had landed in when he had been thrown back into his cell. It was difficult to move with his hands bound behind his back, his legs chained by a short manacle. More difficult still as a result of the dead weight of his weary body. Every muscle he had ached with a burning, white tension he had never believed would be possible to feel and survive. _And yet, _he thought, gritting his teeth against the pain as he put all his strength into shifting just two or three inches to the left, _I seem to be surviving. _The fact that this thought brought him no joy was not lost on him as a sheen on sweat quickly coated his fever burning skin.

Leto didn't need to be a healer to know that he was seriously ill. He couldn't track how long he had been trapped here, deep underground. It didn't matter how long he had been here, he knew the bigger question was how much longer he would be forced to endure it. The deep laceration across his chest was hot to the touch and weeped a strange yellow pus that reeked of death.

He tasted blood, and realised he had bitten into the soft flesh of his lower lip in an attempt not to cry out. The taste made his stomach churn, and he suddenly felt giddy and head sick. The cell was dark, the chains that hung from the wall too rusted to be any use to hold the workers, and it stank of dirty water and disease. The smell overwhelmed him, the taste of blood on his dry tongue, the sickening tightness of his empty stomach. His heart fluttered in his chest, it's normally strong rhythm deformed into spasms.

When the Halla got old, or sick, or on the rare occasions the clan had not had enough food to feed the creatures, they had killed them. There was no cruelty in the action, and Leto found himself now wishing for the same kindness.

His head was spinning. His breath was too shallow, too fast, and felt himself tipping over. The last thing he felt, before swirling shades of light and darkness clouded his vision, was a pair of hands grabbing him.

**9.21 Dragon**

**Edigius' Manor, Minrathous**

Varania rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that pulled across her shoulder blades. Not wholly surprisingly, given her present circumstances, it didn't work. She took a deep breath and knocked at the large, dark wooden door in front of her. She had no idea what she would find in the chambers beyond, but her imagination helpfully supplied a number of unwelcome suggestions as it raced in tandem with her heart.

When Cal had told her that Hadriana wanted to talk to her about elves she had laughed. It had taken him a good hour to talk her down once she had realised he was serious. Even Varania, locked away in her room, had heard and seen enough to know that Hadriana was no friend to her kind. She had seen the way faces came and went, disappeared suddenly away with no word or comment, not even a trace of them left behind. She had watched with curiosity, then with anger and finally with fear at the way the slaves' faces paled when Hadriana walked into a room. Even Cal, who seemed to her so confident and certain, changed when she was there. He became quiet, watchful.

He reminded her at those moments of her brother, a comparison that itched at her conscience. Varania had come to accept that her clan and her father had abandoned her. But Leto? He had promised her he would look after her. The pain of being forgotten by so many dulled when set against the fact that even her pompous, moralistic brother didn't love her enough to rescue her. If it ever occurred to Varania that perhaps she didn't deserve to rescued, it was a fleeting thought that she quickly suppressed.

Eventually it had been the promise that they would leave that had swayed her. Cal had said that if she could help Hadriana, he could then petition for his training to be sped up, and perhaps, if she did her task well enough, he might get his title within the next year. And Varania wanted nothing more now than to get the Void out of Minrathous. Cal had promised her power and adulation, and although he had fulfilled the latter promise it was only his obsessive and controlling love that cosseted and comforted her; as to power, she had practiced less magic in this Magister's house than she had back with the Keeper. Varania was no fool, but even as she knew it was unlikely that Hadriana would just let them leave, the shred of hope Cal gave her was just enough to win her reluctant agreement to meet with the monster.

She had spent the evenings of the last few days with Cal as he tried to coach her in the minuscule tells that would help her navigate her conversation with Hadriana and, Maker willing, see her come out of it in the same state she went in. His advice swam around her head now, as she stood waiting for Hadriana's hand slave to open the door.

She never smiled, and when she did it was because she had some power, a diamond up her sleeve. Don't stare at her, but don't ignore her either. Look at a point just above her right ear, don't make eye contact. Only speak when asked a direct question. Don't look at the scars on her wrists, even if they're uncovered. Do not under any circumstances call her by her name, even if she invites you to - it will be a trick. She likes to watch you struggle. She likes pain. She'll kill you as easily as correct you, so don't make mistakes. Never, never relax, or mistake yourself for being safe.

Varania could see herself dimly reflected in the varnished surface in front of her. Her hair was brushed so smooth it shone, but instead of the intricate knots Cal liked her to wear it was pulled away from her face in a simple ponytail. Today she wore no make-up or perfume, habits Cal had also cultivated in her, and her dress was simple but cleanly cut and hung well off her slender frame. In some odd way, despite the gown and the slippers and the brassy hair, she looked more like herself than she had in months. She smoothed down her dress, and than ran her hand over her hair, checking her reflection carefully for anything out of place, anything in her appearance that might cause offence.

The lock clicked and Varania stood back, watching the handle turn as her mind raced again with thoughts of the hundreds of ways she might die that day. The door swung inwards, and Varania was met not by a slave, but by the Mistress herself.

"You're early," Hadriana remarked blandly. "A good sign. Follow."

Varania stepped over the threshold, into Viper's nest.

**9.20 Dragon**

**The Quarries, Neromenian**

He was standing on ice so cold it steamed.

The land around him was deathly quiet, everything still, clean and cold. Leto drew in deep, greedy lungfuls of the crisp air, drinking it down as if it were the sweet berry-wine he had gown up with. There was a memory somewhere of a time when the air had tasted stale and dank... But he couldn't place it, and then it slipped away as quickly as it had arrived.

Everything was a strange, iridescent blue. As far as he could see the land was nothing more than the sweeping surface of the ice under his feet. The light was so bright it made his eyes sting, though there was no sun. Something else was missing too; Leto, balancing unsteadily on his bare feet, turned slowly in a circle, scanning the flat, distant horizon. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, and there was nothing to see. It was like he was standing in the centre of a vast, frozen disc. The land was completely barren, the sky so grey he couldn't tell what was sky and what was cloud.

Leto pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead, taking comfort in the rough scrape of the lyrium against his skin. The land was dead. He felt the insistent sting of the unnatural blue ice against the soles of his feet. It made his skin crawl and tingle with a sensation that was neither pain nor pleasure. He flexed his toes, enjoying the buzzing sensation the contact with the ice created, and bent down unsteadily to touch his fingertips to the slippery surface.

The hand that touched the ice was wrong.

Leto straightened, turning his hands in front of him, trying to work out what it was about them that made him feel suddenly uneasy. They were his hands; his fingers, his palms, his same softly tanned skinned, his deep white vallaslin markings, running from from his palms, he knew, up his arms and over his body. So why did they feel like they belonged to someone else?

Leto tried to step forward, and found himself landing heavily on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He scrambled unsteadily to his feet, and tried again to walk across the slick, frozen surface. Arms stretched out like a dancer to keep balanced, his eyes searched for something familiar in this unfamiliar place.

He could remember a deep fear...

Leto stood as still and silent as the landscape, exploring the sensation. Somewhere, buried deep in his consciousness, he could remember feeling terrified and lost, and utterly alone. But it was an abstract memory, like when a forgotten moment from childhood is described: imaginable, believable and yet unreal and unexperienced.

_...Can you bring the torch closer?..._

A flash of light, so blinding he fell to his knees, covering his eyes with both his hands.

Somewhere behind the thunder in his mind he could her voices. The clatter of rising panic flooded his hearing like a tidal wave, violent and heavy and completely overwhelming. Someone was asking him a question.. He couldn't make it out. He wasn't asleep was he?

_Where am I? _Leto thought, deliciously calm despite the unnerving smell of burning meat wafted over him.

Someone was laughing. He unfolded slowly from where he had ducked, blinking owlishly in the bright summer sun. He was in some kind of camp, there were elves all around him, laughing and talking.

He found his gaze drawn away from the friendly hubbub of the camp to an intricately carved wooden caravan, set somewhat away from what was obviously the centre of the camp. There was a man talking to an older woman. He had short flame red hair and tattoos covering his face. _Why would anyone tattoo their face? _Leto wondered in bemusement. The old woman was even more extensively marked, though the lines that swirled across her forehead and cheeks were so faded they were hard to make out. Leto padded closer to them. He knew how to be silent, but even if they had heard his approach they took no notice. They were arguing, and the woman was reaching out to man, trying to calm him down. Leto watched as he shook her hand from his arm and walked angrily away from her. He thought for a second she was going to follow him, but then she shook her head sadly.

_...Give him some water_...

Leto's attention was pulled away from the woman by two children who ran past him as if he wasn't there. There was a nagging familiarity about them, but he couldn't place what it was about them that caused it. The little girl was laughing, ringing peals that echoed around the large encampment. She had dark red hair that flew out behind her in tangled strands as she ran from a boy, slightly older than her but laughing as well. The boy.. Leto stared at him. The boy child was smiling, shouting out words that he couldn't understand, though he knew he should. The boy was different from all the other elves, tanned with deep black hair.

Leto watched the children, a smile playing across his lips. The sun felt good against his skin, and the sounds of the encampment relaxed him. No one seemed to know he was there, but he didn't mind. It felt good to be there, unnoticed and unobserved. He wasn't sure why, but he knew he had never felt so free before.

He followed the children as they ran into a large tent. Inside it was dark and cool, even though a fire burnt in the centre of the domed space. The floor was covered in blankets and furs, and Leto sank down into the softness. He crossed his long legs, resting his elbows on his knees and watched as the children became lost in what was obviously a deep conversation. The strange little boy seemed sad, and Leto wished then he could see him, so that he could ask what was wrong.

His eyelids felt heavy, and he could feel his breathing slow and deepen. The rugs under him felt so soft and comfortable, and if no one could see him... Would it matter if he closed his eyes, just for a moment? He was so tired suddenly. _When I wake up_, he thought drowsily, I'll_ try to speak to the boy, find out what's wrong... I'm sure I can help him. _

..._Careful! You're choking him..._

Leto's eyes snapped open as the familiar rush of blood flowed through his veins, exciting him in a way no lover ever could. Leto felt a surge of power and knew he was, for that brief moment, alive. He was hunting. And Maker, how he loved to hunt and kill.

A human man was crouched in front of him, hunched over and bloodied. _He's younger than me, and not so strong_, Leto observed dispassionately. _I can kill him easily. Easiest if I feint to left then deal an upper cut to his windpipe before he moves. Or the back of his head is exposed, if I hit him hard enough I could concuss him, crack his scull on the ground. Third: calm him down, snap his arm when he tries to stand, kick his legs out from under him, knock him on his back, phase, take his heart. Marginally harder, but more rewarding._

It would be easy. There were so many ways a man could die, let alone one as vulnerable and weak as this human. He didnt even try to protect himself, he was just rocking on his haunches, snivelling. _Maker, it would be a kindness._ And yet, Leto felt rather than knew that this human wasn't the quarry he was hunting. There was something else here, something far more dangerous. A real test of his skill, slouching unseen in the darkness.

They were somewhere dark, maybe underground. It was cold, and the atmosphere had a stillness to it that made him wonder if any one has ever been there before.

Leto stepped forward, but the other man recoiled, his eyes wide with fear. Leto spun round, but there was nothing, no one there.

He open his mouth, trying to ask who the man was, but all that came out was a growl. The human whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Why is he so afraid? Leto realised he didn't want this man to be frightened of him, he didn't want this man to ever feel afraid of him. Who is he? Why does he matter so much?

_My skin.. It's burning..._

He looked down at himself. The realisation that something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong rushed over him. He wasn't looking at his body. It couldn't be his body.. He was covered in blood. Frantically he began wiping at himself, his legs, his torso, his arms. But the blood wouldn't come off. Suddenly the other man screamed, and Leto snapped his head upwards.

The man pitched forward, dead. Where his heart should have been there was only a gaping hole, blood fountaining upwards from his corpse. Leto began to scream, his whole body burning.

Voices...

"He's coming round.."

"Thank Andraste for that!"

"Quick, get him on his feet, before they reach us!"

**9.21 Dragon**

**Edigius' Manor, Minrathous**

Varania resisted the urge to fidget as she sat in the hard chair Hadriana had waved her towards. She wanted to look around the room, but all she had managed to glimpse as she'd followed the other woman to the small circular table by the window had been a slim book case, so grey with dust she wondered if Hadriana had ever read any of the books on its shelves, a messy dresser fronted by a large bronze mirror and a grotesque wooden carving hanging from the wall. The room itself was dark and stuffy, a result of the curtains being drawn against the sun. The only light came from an old fashioned Tevinter oil burner on the table. Hadriana sat with her back to the covered window, idling her fingers through the flame. Varania sat opposite her and watched as the human gazed into the thin plume of fire as if she wasn't there.

The roar of the silence was deafening. Varania found herself wondering if there had been some mistake, if she had placed herself here, in front of this woman and in so much danger for no reason. The slow stretching out of time made her feel sick. But she knew there was nothing now that she could do. She was here, in this place, and she could only wait and hope that the next time she went through the door she would still be breathing.

"You don't have them" Hadriana looked up at her guest suddenly, a twinge of annoyance in her voice. Varania couldn't stop herself from jumping, her nerves were pulled so thin. But she managed to keep her silence bar the briefest of shocked gasps, remembering the warnings Cal had impressed on her. The silence, as full of tension as a tight-rope, stretched out again between the two women. Hadriana went back to playing with the flame, her frozen eyes fixed on Varania as her finger tips continued their dance through the heat.

"Well?" the other woman finally snapped, clearly expecting Varania to have said something. _Damn you, Cal_. Varania swallowed.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"_Mistress_," Hadriana cut across her, her annoyance now no longer a hint in her voice, "I don't understand, _Mistress._ The tattoos, the 'vallaslin'," she pronounced the word carefully, as if worried the edges of the letters might cut her tongue.

Poor Varania. She didn't have the guile of Callum, let alone Hadriana. She couldn't have stopped the way her eyes widened even if she had realised they had, so genuine was her surprise to hear the language of her people fall from the lips of the woman opposite her. But she rallied, trying to surf the tide of the conversation and to dispel the irritation that was now so terrifyingly visible on the mage's face.

"No, uh, Mistress, I do not. I was due to have them, but then I started training as First, and then I left with Callum, that is, my Master.. and, well.." Varania drifted off helplessly, and the silence descended again.

Hadriana pulled her pale fingers delicately from the flame and placed both her hands on the table. Her perfect face stilled and she leant forward, studying Varania so intently that the elf began to blush, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Varania had the sensation that she was being weighed up and measured somehow, that the other woman was looking not into her face, but into her mind. She felt exposed, and violated, and weak, feelings which she had never felt before coming to this house.

The flame flickered and danced between the two women, jumping and twisting despite the still air.

Varania shuddered suddenly as images of the clan, of her mother, and father flashed unbidden and unwelcome across her mind. Memories of sitting around the fire eating with the other elves rose like ghosts from her subconscious. Then the memory shifted, and she could see herself, skinny and covered in dirt, ungraciously listening to Elespeth as she taught her how to be Keeper. Fleeting visions that brought back painful memories of the life she had abandoned to be here, in this alien place with a man she didn't think she loved. Then, abruptly, she saw her brother, standing tall and proud as he was officially initiated into the hunting party. He was smiling, that coy half smile of his that was so rare, and he looked at her, and she knew he was smiling at her, and only her.

And then it was gone, and Hadriana leaned back and watched her. "Why did your brother refuse the markings?" she asked, as if it was the most normal question in the world.

Varania tried to catch her breath as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Hadriana had uncovered a place in her that Varania had fought hard to bury. Her heart was beating a war-dance in her chest as the phantoms of her old life swarmed around her, crying out for her attention, for her remorse and her regret. Varania's hands pawed at her chest as she tried to fight for air against the surge of memories that Hadriana had unlocked. And then she found herself, somewhere deep in the swirling current of regret and fear and loneliness; there was Varania, bold, uncontrollable, wild.

Placing her hands neatly in her lap, Varania looked up to see a pair of frozen blue eyes studying her with interest and amusement.

"Because he thought he was better than us," she replied, staring Hadriana in the face and not caring what happened next. The woman had raped her memories, and Varania wanted to get down on her knees and thank her for it, because she had uncovered something that she had forgotten was there. If she died now, she would die herself, and the realisation erased the fear that just moments ago had threatened to overwhelm her. _Let her kill me, let her drain all my blood and by the Maker I'll see she drowns in it,_ Varania thought as she watched those empty eyes gaze back at her, unreadable and cold.

Hadriana smiled, and stood without warning. She walked swiftly over to the dresser, and opened the door to the cabinet, taking out two glasses and a Antivan crystal decanter filled with a deep red wine. Varania watched her as she came gracefully back to the table, the glasses hanging carelessly from her fingers. The human sat again in the opposite chair, and poured two large measure of the wine into the glasses, before handing one to the elf. _A test_, Varania remembered, _she will test you. Don't fail, because you won't get a second chance._ She picked up the glass and, without hesitation, took a long draught of the rich, mellow liquid, her eyes never leaving the other woman's.

Hadriana smiled again, and took a more genteel sip from her own drink. The wine glass made a soft ting as she placed it back on the table. Varania followed suit, placing her own glass gently before her. The light from the oil burner caught the angles of cut glass, creating a beautiful warmth that neither women noticed.

"Well," Hadriana murmured, "you are interesting. Fine, enough games. You have information that I need. Your Master, if he is indeed the master of your relationship, hinted at such and I have seen that in that respect at least he was correct."

"What do you wish to know, Mistress?"

"Oh my, you are good. You look me in the eye, but you remember your courtesies. I can see we will get along_ famously_." Hadriana pronounced the word slowly, her tone mocking. Varania said nothing. _This isn't a woman who wants to be friends, _she warned herself. _Everything is a test._

Hadriana took another sip of wine. Varania did the same.

"I want you to tell me everything you know about this blood writing, this vallaslin that your people practice. I also need to know about your gods, and your history," she said, placing the glass carefully once again on the table.

"That will be difficult, Mistress. Much of our history is not known, even to us."

Hadriana glanced at her nails, then back up at Varania. "I have books. Many books in fact, but I cannot read them." Hadriana spoke as if she was being forced to admit to a crime she hadn't committed, and Varania wondered what it was costing her to have this conversation. "I will have them sent to your room, and you will read them every hour that you are awake and that is not spent with me. You are at my disposal now, is that understood?"

Varania nodded her head, yes.

Hadriana brought the glass to her lips, and then replaced it on the table. She let herself frown, and spoke as if the thought had just that moment occurred to her. "Aren't you curious as to why I want to know these things? Are you not.. _worried_ about my intent?"

Varnia shook her head, no.

"Good," Hadriana said, satisfied. "Now, since you are here, drinking my wine and taking my time away from other matters, I see no reason why you cannot at the very least explain some of those memories," she continued as if it wasn't her that had summoned Varania to her rooms.

_I have this one chance,_ Varania realised. _I must act now, while I am still interesting and of use to her._ Varania lifted the wine to her mouth, letting the cool glass press against her lips before taking a deliberately long, slow sip. Her eyes never left the other woman's face, and she was gratified to see that Hadriana seemed more amused that annoyed by her reluctance to jump into an explanation.

"I will tell you everything I can, Mistress," Varania said, slowly pulling the glass back from her mouth, "but first I would like something from you." She watched as Hadriana's neat, dark brown eyebrows rose, but when the other woman said nothing she continued. "I want you to give Callum his Magister's cap and to let us leave here. I want to be free from this house and from this city."

The flame flickered, and Varania once again felt the uncomfortable sensation of her mind being rifled through. The argument with Leto, the pain on his face when she called him a wild animal, his horror when he hit her surfaced and then receded. The journey from Asariel to Minrathous was next to rise up, then the memory of Wintersun, of Cal staring up at her with eyes filled with lust. And then the images were gone.

"You do well to call him by his name. He is no Master, and he certainly no Magister," Hadrian acknowledge grudgingly. "He had help, you know, when he stole you away from your family." Hadriana paused. "Ah, but you don't know, do you? That memory is hidden from you. But not by him, he doesn't have the Ability. He believes you love him," she added carelessly.

Varania wanted to leave then, she wanted to get up and run as fast and as far as she could, even if it meant leaving her mother and Cal behind. And yet, even as she resisted the scream of her instincts, she sensed that Hadriana was telling her something she needed to know. There was something in her taunts of Cal that, deep inside her, range painfully true. Those cold blue eyes held no deceit, and Varania supposed that Hadriana wouldn't lie when the truth could hurt so much more. She pushed the idea from her mind, needing the answer to her current question more than the answer to a question she hadn't even known she had.

"Will you give him his cap? If I tell you everything, if I swear myself to your task?"

Hadriana rested her chin on her knuckles, her porcelain face unreadable, her eyes watching the flame as it danced above the lamp. Then she looked up at Varania. "It is not in my power to give, not while Egidus still lives. I am not yet capped myself, though it pains me to admit it to one of you. However, I will offer you this. If you tell me everything I need, if you answer every question I have with not thought other than to confide in me, I will ensure your freedom, one way or another."

And with that, Varania accepted, she would have to be satisfied. She nodded her head in agreement. Hadriana's smile slithered across her face like a snake, thrilled to find the elf everything she had hoped for and more.

A plan had been forming in Hadriana's walled-in mind since she had spoken to Egidius at Wintersun. The woman Hadriana had interviewed had said that Danarius was using elves. At first she hadn't been able to comprehend why such an intelligent and esteemed man would stoop to using the basest of tools, but if Egidius had been right about the elven roots of the ritual then that perhaps explained why. Hadriana stood in an awed and painful distance from Danarius, and the acceptance that she herself could not undergo the ritual had been hard, and, she realised now, had caused her to waste time that could have been spent helping him. So she had determined to do the only thing she could to draw herself into his schemes. She wasn't wealthy enough to offer finance and she wasn't knowledgeable enough to compete with a lifetime of research, so she had looked around her at what she did have and saw that the answer had been there all along. Hope had blossomed in her barren heart as she realised that she had possession of a rare creature; that in fact she had been in possession of it for almost six months. She would find him the _right_ elf.

"Now," Hadriana said, refilling their glasses, "tell me about these tattoos, these marks of elven solidarity that you never received and that your fierce brother refused."

**9.20 Dragon**

**The Quarries, Neromenian**

Leto struggled to stand, batting away the hands that wanted to help him. He didn't know where he was, or who these people were that had forced water down his aching throat and all but carried him out of the darkness and into the blinding light.

"Stop it", hissed the elf to his right, trying to keep her voice as low as possible and yet loud enough for him to hear her. "Do you want to get us all killed?"

"What's happening? Where am I?", Leto whispered back. His eyes weren't adjusting to the sunlight, and tears streamed down his face as he squinted at his surroundings. They were in some kind of open space, standing on a raised wooden platform. The sun burnt his skin.

_Wasn't it winter?_

"What time is it?" Leto asked the female elf who had helped him climb the platform, his voice rising with panic. He could vaguely make out the silhouettes of other elves as the glanced fearfully in his direction.

"Please, please keep your voice down. They'll be here soon and it was hard enough getting you up here. You'll get us all killed or worse if you don't stop shouting," she pleaded with him, the fear and panic in her voice so apparent that it cut through Leto's own confusion and forced him to calm down.

He wiped at his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Even that simple movement caused his legs to wobble under him, but he managed to steady himself before the other elf was able to put her hands on him again.

"What time is it?" he repeated, careful this time to keep his voice to a low murmer.

"Just after noon," the other elf replied.

Leto frowned, confused by her answer. His mind was working too slowly, each through sluggishly following the last.

His eyes were adjusting to the light. He still couldn't focus on the detail around him, but what had once been black splodges and shapes were slowing reforming into people, buildings and a lot of rocks. He seemed to be at the bottom of a deep circular trench, stretching at least fifty feet in diameter. There were caves in the rock that formed the walls of the gully, and the largest wooden containers he had ever seen. He watched as a line of skeletons climbed up thin ladders to the lip of the nearest basket. They carried smaller baskets under their arms, and when they got to the top of the ladder them dumped the contents of the basket over the lip of the silo, before climbing down the ladder again, picking up a new, filled basket and repeating their actions. Leto watched the cycle, blinking in confusion. And then he realised that the skeletons were in fact other elves.

"What is this place?" he asked in horror, barely managing to maintain the low whisper that the other woman felt was so important.

She glanced quickly at him, a concerned expression on her tired face. Now Leto's vision was returning he noticed a large, swollen bruise obscuring her left eye.

"You really don't remember...?"

Leto shook his head, not trusting himself to speak calmly to this frustrating woman.

"You're in the quarries. You were here when I arrived. You... you helped me, us." She nodded her head down the line, drawing his attention to two other elves. "But then you got sick. You still are," she finished sadly.

"When you arrived..?"

"Yes," she replied unhelpfully. "I don't know when you came here. It's hard to keep track of time. But most of us die quickly, and they say you've been here longer than anyone, so I would guess at least two moons, maybe longer. _They_ don't want to lose you, I know that much" she said darkly, her expression clouding over.

_At least two moons? _Leto thought in horror, _but that would make it a new year..._

**9.21 Dragon**

**The Quarries, Neromenian**

Leto felt the shock like a punch in the stomach. _Two moons, perhaps longer._ What had happened to him? He couldn't think straight. He felt like he was on fire, and he could feel the film of sweat that covered his body. He searched his broken memories, trying to piece together where his life had disappeared. He remembered being at sea, a storm...

The boat had been near destroyed, the cargo, the other elves.. _slaves.._ decimated. A vague image of a fat human man with a wide smile and a soft voice drifted across his mind.. being pulled from the wreckage, taken somewhere, sold...

_They sold me for money towards repairing their boat. I never made it to Minrathous._

Leto felt his heart clench in despair. After everything that had happened to him, everything he had lost and left behind, he was going to die of a miserable sickness, deep underground, alone. He thought of Cassandra, and how she had begged him not to leave her, to forget about his sister and his mother and his vengeance. He thought about his family, alive and dead, and longed for his home with a need he had never felt when it had been there for the asking. He couldn't stop the tears that began to roll fat and silent down his cheeks, cooling the burning fever as the trickled to his chin.

"It's ok," the other elf whispered to him. She quickly reached out her hand and grasped his fingers in her own, "we're getting you out of here. There's a Magister here," she said excitedly, "looking for dark haired elves. We thought maybe we wouldn't be able to get you up here, but Brandle carried you. I gave you water, I had to hold your mouth open, I hope that's ok? I know you don't like it when people touch you.."

Leto didn't know how to respond. He couldn't really understand what she was saying, she spoke too quickly and too quietly for his foggy brain to keep up. But he heard the word Magister, and grasped onto it like a life rope.

"Where is this Magister?"

"Coming. Now, please, try to stand tall. They wont take you if they know you're sick. But once you're in their house.. most of them, they'll let you be healed, so you can keep working. It's not like here."

Leto didn't know what she meant, but even through his fever addled mind he understood that this was his chance to escape this place, and a Magister meant Minrathous.

He stood as straight as he was able, willing his legs to stop their quivering. A hush fell over the line of elves, and a quick glance down the row told him that they were all staring meekly at their feet. He did the same. He looked at the roughly sanded wooden planks with bloodshot eyes. If he had seen himself the hope that fluttered in his heart would have quickly perished. His hair had grown long and stuck to his head in sweaty, matted clumps. His body, already naturally thin, was little more than dirty skin wrapped over muscle and bone. He was a patchwork of scars and bruises, most a result of the dangerous task of mining in poor light deep in the bowels of the earth, but some had been inflicted by the guards that watched over the workers, ensuring they never ceased to labour.

However, none of these imperfections alone would necessarily stop him from being purchased. The large weeping sore that burned in his side was a different matter, but he could think of no way to mask it. The threadbare loincloth that was wrapped across his hips didn't reach high enough to cover the wound, and he didn't trust his legs to keep him balanced if he tried to hide it by angling his torso to the left. He had no choice but to hope that whatever the Magister needed a dark haired slave for, it would be something that his injury would automatically rule him out of.

Leto realised how unlikely that was, but he had no choice but to try. He needed to get out of this place, and these other elves had obviously risked a lot to get him to this line up. He couldn't yet remember how he had helped them, but he didn't doubt her explanation, nor the message her worried expression had communicated to him during their brief conversation.

He could hear the clatter of approaching feet, and the susurrus of a mumbled conversation. He recognised the dialect, but he couldn't find the junctures between words, and so the speech became nothing more than a jumbled mess of sound.

He struggled to concentrate over the nausea that the heat of the sun and the burn of his fever was stocking in his gut.

Small slippered feet stepped into his vision. He couldn't focus on them clearly, only the flash of turquoise as they stopped in front of him. But he didn't need to see them clearly to know they must belong to the Magister. The colour of the dye was too rich, too vibrant to belong to anyone less.

He held his breath and strained every muscle to remain standing. But the little feet stepped away and Leto nearly collapsed with disappointment and exhaustion.

And then they were back, and cool fingers were on his chin, dragging his face upwards to look into ice cold eyes above a smile like spilled lamp oil.

"This is the one," Hadriana said to the quarry master as she pulled a delicate lace handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped Leto's sweat from her fingers. She watched mildly as he collapsed at her feet, before turning her attention away from his heaped body.

* * *

><p>I am on the twitterwebs! ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	28. Chapter 28

_The Fade_

_They are not women, though they look so similar it's hard to believe that they are only approximations. But you must remember, you must keep it fixed in your mind. They are not women, despite the curve of their hips and the swell of their breasts. Think on it this way: in the flickering sunlight of the jungles of Seheron, a tiger can be mistaken for just another shadow, for something insubstantial and unreal. It is a mistake you make only once, and although it is with doubt a valuable learning experience, a better lesson is to understand that things are not always as they seem._

_Desire and Hope watch the dreams of the old man, as he recalls his life and the choices he made. They hold little interest to either now that his part is almost played, but the faint tug of Egidius' need is enough to warrant a cursory viewing, especially from them. After all, what would they be without the dreams of the living?_

_They watch the fever dreams of the elf, interested and encouraged by the images his subconscious pulls up. They cannot enter this vision, but they are not needed by him, not now. They have set him on his path, and will only return to him if he strays, as he so nearly did with the human woman. Hope smiles. She knew she had been right about him. There was a time when Desire had thought the sister might have sufficed, but Hope had seen the truth of how the world must be, and who they could use. She had always believed in the pieces she had selected, and Desire rewards her now with an excited kiss to her cheek, like a little girl, or a sister, might give._

_They are aware that what they are trying to accomplish is beyond anything their kind has ever attempted, but the way world must be is so clear to them. They are of one mind, joined in certainty. They cannot recall now who had first questioned the way the world is, but once the betrayal was voiced both knew they could not allow it to remain ever thus. Their plan was easily begot, a testament to the strength of their combination. Soon they will need others, but for now they are enough. They have already achieved so much. So many little nudges to move their pieces into place. But for now they can only watch, and trust in the foundations they have painstakingly laid. _

_Hope turns to her companion, her accomplice, her other half, and says in a tone that undermines her worlds that she is sure everything will come to fruition. Desire smiles bravely. She believes in their work, and knows they have done all they can to ensure that this transaction, the only one truly out of their control, goes as they have planned. There are so many potential eventualities, so many futures in front of them, twisting and spinning through time like so much gossamer - and each as fragile. _

_The magister may not accept the elf, or the elf the magister. Perhaps one or both will not be desperate enough, their hopes and desires not suitably manipulated and frustrated to cause them to overcome their fears or hubris. In a hundred futures they refuse each other, in a thousand the elf dies and the ritual is incomplete, in a million there is no escape, no war between the mages and the templars, no sudden release of power and no _valesh'engris _to open the way. _

_But with each piece, the numbers change, and slowly, steadily, they are favouring Hope and Desire's vision of how the world must be. Of course, all this depends on the next conversation, and the one piece they cannot control._

_Remember the tiger?..._

_Everyone knows all spirits and demons want is a mage to possess, to walk among the humans as one of them, to live in the human world. After all, the Chant of Light is clear in its teachings: the Fade is their bastardised approximation of our world, they are jealous of us, of what we have that they do not. So they plagiarise our emotions, our sins and our virtues, because they have no will of their own. They are unable to feel hope, faith, justice or desire, so they take what is ours. _

_But how long can something remain only a copy? Or rather, will you notice that the shadow is has become something substantial before or after it has it's claws in you?_

_They turn their gaze back to the dreams that are playing out in front of them, the magister who dreams of power, the boy who dreams of fame and love and money, the elf who longs to be recognised and independent, the warrior who wants nothing more than the safety of his family, and to feel he belongs. And then their gaze falls on the darkness. On the mind that is so hard, so closed and rotten that even they cannot break through it._

_And now everything depends on that mind, on its wishes and dreams._

_Desire takes her sister's hand and squeezes it tightly. For now they can only watch._

**9.21 Dragon**

**The Senate, Minrathous**

If Hadriana had been given to such things, she would have felt sick with excitement. She had spent all morning waiting in the senate buildings for Magister Denarius to arrive at his office, sitting as still and quietly as one of the large marble statues that littered the sweeping hallways. The minutes and then the hours drifted by unnoticed, the only thought occupying the young woman's mind was that today was the day she would finally meet the man who had shaped her entire life.

Hadriana had of course met Denarius before, in the sense of an introduction and then in vague and fleeting moments at the various functions she attended with Egidius, and latterly by herself. But she had never really _met_ him, not in the way she clamoured for. She doubted he knew her name, and she knew for a fact he wouldn't be able to describe even the barest aspects of her life if he were asked. He might know she was Egidius' apprentice, and he probably knew she had her own as she had boasted so shamefully loudly and openly about it, before she had met Callum and found what she had been saddled with. The sting of embarrassment whenever she thought about Callum still troubled her, no matter how much she tried to sooth it. But now was not the time to dwell on such things.

The clatter of footsteps echoed along the corridors as senators and administrators went about their business, caught in the various flurries of government. Occasionally a well-meaning person asked Hadriana if she needed help. They had each received a Look, and hurried quickly away, regretting their concern.

Hadriana had never tried to directly approach Denarius before, a fact which, knowing her, might surprise. After all, etiquette wasn't something that monsters were overly troubled by. She had approached Egidius at fourteen, asking to be apprenticed; she had demanded her own apprentice at the age of twenty-two, herself not yet capped. Hadriana didn't _not_ care about such things; rules and obedience were extremely useful in their place, but she didn't understand why anything should stand in _her_ way. Hadriana was in many ways a very simple, untroubled person. She simply wanted to be a magister, with Denarius at her side, and she wasn't troubled by the means she went to in order to secure her dream. No demons courted her, no rivals challenged her, no limitations were placed on her by her old man. She had only herself to rely on, a relationship in which she had total faith.

And yet, she had refrained from simply approaching Denarius. She would get perhaps one chance to win him over, to show him what she could offer, and what a boon she would be to him and his house. One chance, and if she failed she would never get close to him, or to anyone, again.

_But now I have something to offer him, something no one else can_, she thought with her own approximation of a happy smile.

o0o

On the other side of the door, Denarius sat heavily in his chair, exhausted. He had been back in the capital for two months now, and still there seemed so much to catch up on. He knew he had been neglecting his duties as a magister, but he hadn't realised quite the extent of his inattention. Now he had returned to his accepted routine, he found the world had continued on without him and he was expected to catch up or be left behind.

He was forty-five years old, and people were beginning to say he was washed-out. He had absolutely no intention of proving them correct. He had spent over half his life chasing his obsession, and was in no danger of being released from it now, just because of idle titter-tatter. He had dreamed of his prize last night, and now he couldn't shake the half remembered images of his weapon, his lyrium man. He had run his hands over it in his dream, greedily touching and stroking it. He had woken stiff and uncomfortable, and despite the administrations of one of his slaves he hadn't felt sated all day. He longed for his warrior now as passionately as he had at twenty.

He glanced at the clock, which kept good time, if he remembered to wind it every morning. It was dwarven made, a gift from Orzammar for some information he had uncovered about one of their lost thaigs while research Nereda's experiments. When he had eventually returned to his office he had found the standing clock in-situ, and after reading the short note from Aeducan, King of the Dwarves, he had instantly set about removing the face. He had stood staring in wonder at the spinning cogs and wheels that uncovered. The clockwork fascinated him, appealing to something inside himself that was reflected there. It was another kind of magic, and Denarius had already begun to wonder if there was any way it could be used to his advantage. Like the whirling brass mechanisms, his mind worked away insatiably, constantly spinning and turning.

But for now it was getting late, and he had another appointment before he could return home and to his experiments, frustrating as they were. Glancing at his diary, he was surprised to find the name of an apprentice scrawled there. It wasn't unheard of for an apprentice to contact a magister, but usually their tutor instigated the meeting. There was something oddly familiar about the name, and Denarius, keen as always on problems, decided that solving this little mystery might put a nice spin on an otherwise fruitless and depressing day.

And so it was that when he opened the door to Hadriana, she was welcomed with a warm, practiced smile. Denarius used his charm like a card trick. It was there to dazzle and amaze, and, of course, to misdirect. For Hadriana, who had waited so long for this moment, and was so unschooled in the politics of human socialisation, it was the happiest moment of her life.

He waved the young woman into the deep, soft chair he reserved for guests, before sitting behind his desk on his own tall, hard seat. He noticed with amusement the way the girl's eyes shone, her perfectly applied make-up and the smell of expensive perfume that wafted from her. He enjoyed the adulation of others, even if this particular young lady wasn't necessarily to his tastes.

"Well, what can I do for you?" he asked, not unkindly. It didn't hurt to court the young, after all one day this silly, love-struck girl would be a magister. Denarius was nothing if not a forward planner.

For a moment it seemed she was too star-struck to speak, and Denarius had a fearful few seconds while he contemplated the possibility of having to call the porters to have her escorted away. And then, at the point when her silence was on the verge of becoming embarrassing for them both, she said something that caused Denarius to roll his eyes, instantly regretting the meeting.

"I have a gift for you," the girl uttered in a way that she probably though sounded mysterious. He began packing away his papers. To Denarius' ears, well used to flattery and politics, she sounded stupid and young. He smiled at her again, but this time he didn't bother to let it reach his eyes. "I assure you, you have nothing I want," he said, standing from his seat, "why not find a nice young boy for your favours?"

"I have an elf, one who will survive your process."

Denarius sat down.

The clock ticked.

"And how do you know about that?" he answered slowly, no longer pretending to smile.

"I… heard a rumour. About what you're doing. They said you were using elves, so I started to research and-"

"Fine, fine. And what, pray, have you discovered that has so eluded me?"

Hadriana felt her cheeks flush, but ignored it. She had no intention of backing down now, having come so far. "I have been talking to one of them," she admitted, ashamed, "and I have learnt many things, all of which will help you." She watched his face for any signs of revulsion or censure as a result of her confession, and was relieved to see none. She had known he would understand, and would forgive her for consorting with such creatures. After all, he knew it was all for him.

Denarius watched the shame play out across her face as she spoke and, although he made no show of his interest, he marked it. He rested his elbows on the desk, and leant towards her. Hadriana's breathing quickened, but he noticed she didn't flinch or shuffle in her seat.

"I have spoken to them, many times. And I have yet to hear anything worth the knowing." His voice was hard like stone. "Why do you believe you have succeeded where I have failed?"

_Across the Veil, the spirits lean forward, watching the scene with painful intensity._

Hadriana opened her mouth to speak, and then paused. This was the moment, and she absolutely understood how thin the ice was on which she was now about the skate. She would need to be fearless, or else the last thing she would ever hear would be the crack. She met his cold blue stare with her own.

"I do not. I have always admired you, my lord. You are the greatest magister of our time, and you are the centre of my life, even if you are unaware of it. I could no more supersede you than the moon could the sun. But, if you will allow me, I do believe I have found your elf, and I want nothing more than to give him to you, as a gift, and to offer myself to you, as your wife."

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

The Viper was such a poor nick-name for Hadriana. But Denarius had no nick-name at all, because how could you label such a man, with his wealth and his power and his chilly intellect? He regarded Hadriana now as he had the clock, watching all her cogs and wheels turn, and he understood her as easily as he had the mechanisms hidden behind the ornate clock face.

Tick, tock.

_Hope and Desire peer closer into the world, clutching the other's hand so tightly their knuckles whiten. This is it. _

Tick, tock.

_Could she be useful?_ He wondered, surprised that he was considering it. She had, though he accepted unwittingly, delivered a huge insult to his name. _I want the weapon_, he reminded himself. Denarius pursed his lips, his expression carefully constructed to show that he was considering her proposal.

"Tell me why you think this elf is the one?" he finally asked.

"In order to do that I need to first tell you about their tattoos, the val-"

"I am aware of the vallaslin" he cut across her, making sure his tone was pitched somewhere between anger and boredom. "If this all you have to offer, you are not only insulting me, but also wasting my time. And quickly frankly, I am not sure which bothers me more. I suppose we will have to find out, together."

Hadriana paled as she saw her future slipping away from her. "Please, my lord. I did not mean to presume you did not. But I believe I am privy to something that you simply could not know."

"Go on."

"The vallaslin, the tattoos, are given to the elves when they come of age, and are accepted into the clan. But _they_ must also accept the clan. The markings are more than tattoos; they are a kind of blood magic, tying the clan to the elf, but also the elf to the clan. If they elf in question does not want to join, the tattoos will fail. The body will reject them."

Denarius sat forward, his eyes alight. "How do you know this?"

"As I said, I spoke to one."

"I have spoken with the elves in my service. They are dumb, stupid creatures."

"I'll not be the one to deny that," Hadriana readily agreed, "but I... Well, I have a wild one, one that grew up with their own kind, and their own lore. The elves we enslave are born to it, or are stolen from their clans so young they know nothing. But the one I have, she knows their history; she is the one who told me these things."

There was a pause as Denarius digested this information, silently cursing himself. He couldn't understand why something so obvious had not occurred to him. All these years with his nose stuck in dusty old books as his purse depleted with each experiment, each shipment of lyrium. He felt his stomach clench in rage, but his expression did not alter, did not betray him. _It doesn't matter, I can use this girl, I can still get my weapon, _a comforting voice whispered at the edge of his mind. And why not? It was obvious Hadriana wanted more than anything else to be of service to him, though he found the extent of her desire distasteful. _This situation can be salvaged. I can still succeed._

"Very well," Denarius said, "You have my attention. Tell me about the elf you wish to give to me."

Hadriana was about to ask about her own proposal, but the question died on her lips. Instead, she recounted everything she had learnt about Leto, both from Varania's own retelling of her life and from the memories she had stolen. When she had finished, Denarius walked over to his mantel place and poked at the dying embers.

"And you have this elf now?" he asked.

"Yes, he's in a storeroom, not far from him. His health is recovered, but I have kept him delirious. It seemed easier that way."

"Good. Well, miss – what is your name anyway?"

Hadriana ignored the sting, and answered. Denarius raised an eyebrow when she had finished, but if he had noticed the name of her house, and remembered the various attempts on his life, he made no comment.

"Very well, Hadriana. Now let me tell you something. You are correct. It must indeed be an elf that undergoes the process, it is their magic. The markings are a vallaslin, but they do not unite the individual to a clan, rather they are designed to join him, or indeed her, to their gods of life and death – to what we call the Fade. I have spent many years researching the exact pattern the markings must take, and they are, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely extensive. The ritual so far has killed all that have undergone it, elf, human or dwarf. If, _if_, I accept your premise that the subject must willingly accept the markings, that may account for the high failure rate." Denarius turned from the fire to stare down at Hadriana, "Yet I fail to see exactly why this elf, or any for that matter, would be willing to risk their life to a process that requires them, quite literally, to have a molten hot poison poured into a series of open wounds that cover their entire body, from the tips of their little ears to the soles of their dainty feet."

Hadriana stood from her chair, and joined him at the fireplace.

"This elf, he will do it gladly, in exchange for the freedom of his sister and mother. Both of whom currently reside with me."

Denarius smiled, and Hadriana's broken heart soared.

"I will need to see a display of his strength. And it will not be enough to simply approach him with this plan. From what you have told me, he is very likely to be… mmm... _sceptical_ of human kindness. Still, I am nothing if not persuasive. Very well, Hadriana Octavia Livia Egidius of the House Egidius. I will offer you this in exchange for you thoughtful gift. If the elf agrees, and the ritual is a success, I will adopt you in law and name you my apprentice and my heir. You will be the sole beneficiary to the name Denarius apon my death, in addition to my lands, my money and my titles. Moreover, I will grant you while I live a place at my side at all functions, I will teach you all I have learnt regarding magic, politics and lyrium. You will have free reign over the house, access to my purse, and my support in whatever intrigues you decide to pursue. It is not marriage, but I believe it will suffice?"

Somewhere, lost in the depths of Hadriana's soul, something shattered. But she had almost everything she wanted, and she was pragmatic.

She held out her hand.

_Desire and hope tense…_

Denarius shook it with every sign of pleasure.

_...and break in to screams of laughter and delight, hugging and kissing each other like over-excited school girls._

He went to his bureau and poured two larges glasses of wine, handing one to his potential daughter. Hadrian took a grateful sip, and knew she would always now associate the taste of red wine with tainted happiness.

"Now," Denarius began, "How shall we engineer a display of this boy's prowess?"

Hadriana, enjoying the sound of the pronoun on his lips, replied "I believe I know of just the thing to not only show you his skill, but also to convince him to undergo the process. First, we must…."

o0o

When Hadriana finally left Denarius' office, many hours later, the sting of disappointment had all but faded, leaving behind it a dull ache that she fought to ignore.

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><p>I am on the twitterwebs! -at- ThePumpkinNinja<p> 


	29. Chapter 29

**9.21 Dragon**

**Egidius' Warehouse, Minrathous**

Hadriana took Denarius to 'meet' Leto that evening. She had brought the elf to one of the small store rooms Egidius kept in the city, and had thus far kept him under control and sedated with a zealous application of magic. She had travelled for two days with the stinking creature, too frightened of him dying to risk shipping him back to Minrathous on board one of the slaver vessels. Instead she had travelled by coach, and Leto, his mind delirious with fever and clouded by magic, had unknowingly entered the city of Minrathous in the same manner his sister had, almost a year before him.

She watched now with feigned nonchalance as the eyes of her beloved darted up and down the elf, unconscious and vulnerable on the small cot. Leto did make quite a spectacle, even flat on his back, his head tilted backwards at a painful angle and sticky yellow puss congealing around the rotten sore on his stomach. Even the deep bruising and scarring that marred his unusually brown skin did little to distract from his sharp, haughty beauty. And yet, although Hadriana could see all these qualities as clearly as Denarius, her reaction to the elf had more in common with a doctor reviewing a dark and cloudy x-ray. She hung back from the table, arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowed in distaste.

The difference between the young apprentice and the older magister was sharply apparent. While Hadriana scowled and sulked, Denarius walked slowly around the unconscious body, his face still and inscrutable. Years of slapped wrists and clouts around the head as a child paid dividends, as his expression remained calm despite the riot of emotion he was experiencing. His mother would have been proud, had she survived. _This is it, _he realised with manic glee. He was certain, he knew it in a way that could not be explained by the Chant or by the Fade. _This is it, this is my weapon._ And it was so beautiful, so unique.

Denarius looked down on a life-time's obsession, and felt overcome. He wanted to cry and laugh aloud. Small goose bumps fluttered up his arms, mercifully covered by long velvet sleeves. Instead he stood silently over the weapon, gazing downwards at it's shape and strength. _It's real. It's here, in front of me._

For one brief, terrifying moment Denarius wondered if this was a dream, the concoction of some mischievous and cruel Fade spirit. Had he finally gone mad? He knew people whispered in corners about him, about his money, his long and secretive business trips, his managed charm. He knew that the rumour had been circulating, that some ancient and evil magic had unhinged him. Maker, even this wretched child had known about the weapon. Was this a trick, some vision woven by one of his many enemies?

His eyes darted up and down the weapon. It couldn't be an illusion - it was too scarred, too imperfect. Why would an opponent create a flawed fantasy? It didn't make sense. And this girl, spoilt and desperate and utterly wicked - why include a detail like that? He watched as Leto's chest rose and fell. _It is beautiful_. All the scars that decorated Leto's skin only served to highlight the unnatural glamour of the body beneath. _And a weapon should have a few nicks, it should be used_, Denarius thought abstractly as Leto's muscles jumped, causing his leg to twitch.

"He's fighting it," Hadriana said from the corner. "I've already had to strengthen the spell twice today."

Denarius' eyes didn't leave the elf.

Hadriana watched as the Magister slowly brought his hand out to hover just above the elf's abdomen, mere millimetres away from touching the smooth skin. There was something terribly intimate about the gesture, despite the lack of contact. The air in the small space tightened, and she realised that Denarius had opened the Fade. She could taste tin on her tongue, and watched as the wound on his stomach, still festering, slowly began to heal under Denarius' ministrations. Hadriana's eyebrows rose, but she kept her silence. It wasn't unheard of for a Magister to practice healing magic, but it was uncommon. Usually such crafts were left to hedge mages and house physicians, as there was no power in it. Better to destroy or control than to fix and mend, that was the Imperium's unofficial code. She wondered why Denarius would have bothered learning such a skill, but she didn't dare interrupt him. Instead she turned her head to the wall in an effort to avoid the expression on Denarius' face as he concentrated. She doubted that his reaction to the elf was caused from the exertion of the healing spell.

After a few minutes there was no visible sign of the welt that had moments before lain open and weeping, filling the room with a sweet, putrid stench that was noticeable now for its absence. Only a new scar, red and slightly sore, gave evidence to the fact that Denarius had just saved Leto's life.

Denarius sighed, a soft sound that hung in the small room. Slowly, as if the elf were made of glass, he brought his palm down to rest of the patch of skin that he had just healed. His hand lay below Leto's belly button, just inches away from indecency. Hadriana watched, horrified, as Denarius' thumb began to move in slow, sweeping strokes across the unconscious creature. He stared transfixed by the movement of his own thumb, his face icy calm despite the rosy flush that was now impossible to ignore.

Hadriana watched the way the elf shuddered involuntarily against the spell. Or perhaps against the hand that was now tracing strange sweeping patterns across his skin. In mounting revulsion, she watched as the Magister grew bolder in his attentions. He was now drawing out imaginary patterns along the elf's body with the tips of his fingers. Hadriana stared, unable to look away and wishing all the while that she was anywhere but in that room. She watched, transfixed and appalled, as he lightly grazed the elf's skin so reverentially it felt to her that she was witnessing a reunion; something private and intimate and deeply passionate.

It was apparent Denarius felt the same.

"Leave me," he said without bothering to look up, without pausing in his exploration of the elf's body. His voice sounded thick and heavy.

Hadriana darted through the thin door, shutting it behind her with relief. She leaned back against the unvarnished pine, and slid slowly to the ground. Her imagination worked hard to account for the silence, empty and begging to be filled, that droned through the door.

She didn't cry. She didn't move. Hadriana sat slumped against the cheap door, waiting for Denarius to finish.

**9.21 Dragon**

**Denarius' Manor, Minrathous**

Leto awoke with a dead rat in his mouth, which, after a moment to gather his wits, turned out to be his tongue. It was not much of a relief.

He was laying down on a comfortable bed, and somewhere a window had to be open. He could hear the chitter of birds singing, and the air was cool and fresh. Lifting himself up, he found he was the only resident in some kind of dormitory. It was clean and, he realised, so was he. The abscess on his stomach was missing, replaced by a pink scar that looked to be mostly healed. He'd also obviously been bathed, and his fingernails cleaned and clipped. He brought his hand up to his hair involuntarily, and found that the matted, dry tangle had been washed and brushed. His hair was longer than he had realised, and he found himself wondering, somewhat irrationally given the fact he had no idea where he was or what had happened to him since collapsing, if he would be able to get it cut. Long hair was a luxury of merchants and mothers - hunters kept their hair cropped short, and it annoyed him to have it hang in in front of his eyes. He needed to see the world.

He felt fat pillows behind him, and squirmed against the unaccustomed softness. There was a stone jug next to his bed, and his body, taking charge, picked it up and brought the lip of the jug to his own. He guzzled the warm water greedily, his parched lips and dry mouth softening with each gulp.

"You'll choke if you don't slow down, Leto."

Leto, of course, choked, his surprise causing him to gag and splutter water over the crisp white sheets. A shape detached itself from a shadowed corner, and started to walk over to the bed. He tensed, shifting his grip on the heavy jug, testing it's weight. The man must have noticed the change, as his footsteps slowed and he brought his hands up defensively.

"Don't worry, I'm... Healer. I'm here to help you improve," he said gently. His voice was soft like tanned leather.

"Who are you?" Leto asked, unwilling to be soothed.

"You've been here for a week. You were very ill. We thought you were done for, in all honesty."

Leto frowned. His memories were jumbled, but something in what the man said rang true. He could remember mining the quarries, and the storm, and... Leaving Cassandra. The memory stung, humiliating him with its unsympathetic clarity. She has been right about everything. She had known what dangers he would face, even if she had been mistaken on the detail, and she had told him again and again, that last morning in Marnus Pell. But he hadn't listened. He had dismissed all her warnings, and left her there on the dock.

"Where am I?" Leto asked, relaxing his grip on the jug.

The man started moving again, his long brown robe brushing against the floor as he came to a stop by the bed. He smiled. "You're in the country house of a magister, just outside of the greatest city in Thedas."

"Minrathous?"

"The very same. You were bought at an auction."

That wasn't right. Leto pushed his hair out of his eyes, trying to get a better look at this healer. "An auction? So the magister bought others..?" He asked.

The man reach out and gently took the jug. His hands were pale, and Leto wondered if he was a slave as well. If he were, he couldn't have ever worked a day in the sun. He took the jug over to a tap on the far wall, and began to refill it, talking to Leto over his shoulder.

"Your master is Denarius. A great and powerful man. You're very lucky."

"How so?" Leto asked the healer's back, raising his voice over the running water.

The healer paused, concentrating on filling the jug. After a moment he turned the tap off, and turned back to the bed. Leto watched his cautiously, but there was nothing in his light blue eyes but friendly concern. _Perhaps I imagined the woman? _Leto found him self thinking as the man poured a glass of water and handed it to him.

"How long have I been here?" Leto asked around sips. The human perched on the edge of the neighbouring bed, arranging the folds of his robe.

"Not long. A little over a week. Your blood was poisoned, so it's understandable if you remember things a little hazily. It took a long time to clean your blood," he added. The man jumped from one sentence to the next like an explorer caught on broken ice, trying to reach safety before the slabs drifted further apart.

"I should thank-you."

"No need. It's my job after all. I must say I'm pleased with the results. You can't use blood magic, did you know that? The scarring should be minimal."

Leto looked down at the rosy line that marked out where the wound had been. He couldn't see it made much difference. He was now covered in silver threads of scar tissue, fine and thick lines that cobwebbed over him. But he shrugged the thought off; this man was obviously happy with his work and Leto saw no reason to detract from that.

It didn't occur to him to question how the man knew he had remembered Hadriana.

Leto set the now empty glass down. It was very hot, despite the open windows. The human seemed content to just sit opposite, busying himself by fastidiously straightening the lines of his skirts as they drapes across his legs and over the edge of the mattress. It was peaceful, and Leto couldn't helping yawning.

"You should sleep. I'll let Denarius know you're awake. He'll want you to begin training as soon as you're able."

"Training?"

"You're to become a guard."

"Oh." That was an unexpected piece of good luck. Leto found himself evoking the fates: he didn't really mind what task he was put to, as long as he was taken to Minrathous. It occurred to him that so much had happened to him already, and he still hadn't reached the city where his mother and sister were being held.

"Will I be taken to Minrathous?"

The human paused in his rearranging, and made an appearance of considering Leto's question. After a moment he nodded, and said that he expected as much. "Denarius doesn't spend much time here, though I'm sure he wishes he could" he added sadly, leaping to the next topic.

Leto wasn't sure what to say to this, so he instead watched the other man through the curtain of his hair. He was much older than him, at least forty if not more, but he had a full head of light blonde hair that was turning to grey and a friendly smile. He seemed distracted, and Leto wondered if he had other patients. But the dormitory, or, he supposed, the ward, was empty. Perhaps this Denarius took care of his property, Leto thought bitterly. But then the man has said he was seldom here, and had seemed... There had been a sadness about him, when he had said that. Perhaps he missed his master. Perhaps this Denarius was more similar to Cassandra than the other humans Leto had met. He didn't entertain the hope for long, but if it were true it might make it easier to escape him when he was finally taken to the city. A kind man, a trusting man, would not guard his possessions as enviously.

_I could rescue mother and Varania, and then find Cassandra. Perhaps this whole ordeal is coming to an end. _The thought made Leto smile, and the healer smiled in return, thinking it was meant for him.

"What's your name?" Leto asked, keen to deflect any inquiries about himself.

The human stood from the bed, obviously flustered, and made to leave. "In Tevinter humans have many names. Magisters are usually known by their house, so Denarius is the house name, really. Slaves are named by their master, or else by their job description."

"But what's your name?" Leto insisted.

The man paused by the door, as if trying to think how to answer. He looked uneasy, and Leto wondered if he would duck out of the room without answering. He was certainly looking longingly enough at the exit. But after a moment he said "You can call me Tiberius." And then he left, clearly relieved.

Leto sank back into the pillows, suddenly sleepy. The day was very warm, and the sheets cool underneath him. He fidgeted a little, ignoring the pull on his latest scar as he wiggled himself under the covers. Sometime was a little strange about Tiberius, but he certainly didn't seem to mean him any harm and for now Leto was happy to settle for being in the company of a human who wasn't actively trying to kill him.

The thought made him think of Cassandra again, and although the memory still stung he felt more positive now. He was in a better position than he could have wished for, and as soon as he was in the city and - thank-you Denarius - healthy, trained and armed, he would rescue his family and be reunited with her. The thought of seeing her again brought a wide smile to his face, and as he drifted off to sleep he day-dreamed about Cassandra.


	30. Chapter 30

**Hi there! Just wanna say hi and thanks to LaurieWren for her review - ffn wouldnt let me reply directly, not sure why! Anyway, I'm really happy you're enjoying the story, and thanks for sticking with it! Its become quite the epic :) not far from the finish line now!**

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><p><strong>9.34 Dragon<strong>

**The Hanged Man, Lowtown, Kirkwall**

Lowtown has always had some version of The Hanged Man, or The Last Chance Inn as it was affectionately and unimaginatively known to locals. Even during the Tevinter occupation, officials turned their eyes from the illicit speak-easies that the slaves ran. If nothing else, the foremen would joke, the noxious alcohol the elves brewed weeded out the old and the sick more comprehensively than they were able to manage. Those that were able to drink the wretched ale - distilled from whatever grains or vegetables they could get their hands on, strong enough to tarnish metal and clean bone - and work twelve hours in the mines were often sold on on the black market. It was, in fact, an arrangement that suited everyone. The workers earned some extra coin, and the slaves, if they were lucky, ended up in the kitchens or stables of a wealthy Imperial citizen. And for those left behind, the small rooms that served as bars provided a small slice of amnesia that everyone felt grateful for.

Inns and public houses play a vital role in the machinery of society. They grease the wheels, allowing the mechanisms of human relationships to wind down or up, depending on what is needed at the time. In the distant Rivaini city of Dairsmuid there are at least two bars for every ten citizens, a ratio that makes for eventful nights, and colourful gutters in the morning. Even Nevarra, home to an ancient and mysterious culture in which alcohol is forbidden, still maintains the necessity of the inn. Many a brave traveller or foolish tourist has stepped over the threshold of one of the multitude of innocuous and misleadingly named 'tea houses' to find themselves in a small smoky room, the air scented with sandalwood, cinnamon and fenlandaris from the large glass smoking pipes that every customer seems to have glued to their lower lips. Hours later they awake, stripped naked, in a gutter - or they do not awake at all.

The Hanged Man was not the only bar in Kirkwall, of course. In Hightown there was a smattering of expensively chic wine bars, selling Orleasian, Antivan and even Tevinter wines at prices inflated to such a level that what customers were in fact buying was status, with wine for free. More popular were The Blooming Rose, brothel and bar, famous and infamous in equal measure, and a number of discreet 'Gentlemen's Clubs' which, against all imagination and, Hawke loudly announced, rather disappointingly, tended to be populated by middle-aged husbands trying to escape the healthy, fibrous foods their wives insisted on serving them.

Varric and Hawke had visited one such club not long after returning from the Deep Roads, the money in their pockets clinking and waiting to be spent on the kinds of debauchery that surely would only be permissible in a society designed to cater only for men. Instead they had found a roaring fire in every room, a large library and an even larger bar, and a kitchen which seemed to exclusively stock the kind of sticky, heavy puddings that clog arteries and fill stomachs. The small lounges that made up the majority of the nondescript townhouse were furnished in a comfortably shambolic way that invited guests to put their feet up, sip a whiskey and doze quietly until the bell rang for dinner (usually something jam based and served with custard – the chefs knew their clientele). Hawke had been appalled; Varric had put on a great show about the lack of "beer, boxing and breasts" and then had returned the next day and paid a year's subscription in full.

Darktown too had it's drinking dens, each designed with the sole purpose of redistribution: Money, lovers and often times lives were separated from their owners in a very real demonstration of free market values. But even this served a greater purpose, helping the machine that was Kirkwall to keep running. Dirty oil or useless parts need replacing, after all.

But The Hanged Man was their bar. Both Varric and Isabella had taken rooms, and it was close enough to the rest of the group's varied residences that they could all stumble home in the early hours of the morning without too much difficulty. Hawke's group - and although no one except Varric would admit it, they were most certainly character actors to Hawke's starring role - had grown since he first arrived in Kirkwall nearly five years ago. New members had joined old, and somehow they managed not only to rub along but in fact to forge friendships. Ostensibly they came together to earn coin, but that didn't explain why they would spend hours together at the end of the day, drinking and gossiping and playing hand after hand of Diamondback or Wicked Grace.

Fenris watched as Isabella dealt another hand, amused as she drunkenly fumbled a diamond up her sleeve. He had never had anything approaching a friendship during his time under Denarius, and he was at the same time delighted and terrified by the acceptance he received from the lady pirate. She was lewd and honest and totally unafraid, and for reasons he couldn't understand he felt comfortable around her. He had learnt during the last three years in Kirkwall not to question his instincts, and although he had no real way to be certain, he sensed that Isabella should have reminded him or someone, if he had had any memories. Either way, when she had invited him to join her, Varric, and Donnic that night he had accepted.

As a result he had spent the better part of the afternoon and most of the night steadily sipping the woody, golden paint stripper that passed for whiskey and losing his coin to the pirate and the dwaf, rogues to a pair and unrepentant cheaters. He found, though, as the empty bottles multiplied that he cared less about their flagrant theft and more about trying to spot them actually in the act. He had also had to hide his smile behind his fringe more than once, as Donnic, a city guard, tried to guilt the pair into playing fair.

Fenris was in fact quite drunk. This didn't exactly distinguish him from the rest of the group, but there it was. He had recently stopped drinking socially, preferring to keep the distance of sobriety when in the company of the mages, or, more specifically, Hawke. The elf suppressed a shudder, trying to ignore the white heat of embarrassment than ran through him when he thought of the other man. It had been more than a fortnight since... It was no good, Fenris couldn't even name what had happened between them without his stomach turning. It would have been comforting to have put the feeling down to the cheap whiskey, but he hadn't stopped feeling sick in almost three weeks, and although he had spent a lot of the intervening time drunk he was not so self-deceptive as to pretend that the alcohol, and not his own sense of shame and regret, was to blame for the way his palms grew damp and his cheeks red when he thought of the mage.

He cursed. He hadn't meant to let his mind stray to Hawke, and now his image filled his imagination as surely as his personality managed to fill whatever space he was in. It had been a cause of consternation to the elf, even before the incident. He knew, deep down, that Hawke was not responsible for the way his presence seemed to permeate the world, to draw people in and demand their attention. But that didn't stop it from reminding him of Denarius, who was always charming and convivial and, Fenris was ashamed to admit, alluring in a cold, distant way. Not for the first time he wondered how much of his loyalty to the young Ferelden was some kind of subconscious transference, a combination of trained desire and obedience. It wasn't a new thought, but as it tried to settle on the rising tide of whiskey that churned uncomfortably in his stomach the elf realised he was going to be sick.

Fenris stood as carefully as he could, managing to graze the table rather than knock it completely. Varric shot him a look, but noticing the green tinge that had suffused the elf's normally tanned skin he decided not to comment. The dwarf watched over the top of his cards as Fenris, usually as graceful as a jungle cat, careered though the busy bar and up the stairs at the back of the room. _Presumably to crash in Rivaini's bed_, Varric surmised, amused. If he had known that Fenris in fact had determined that it was his room, as the closer, that was due to be the scene of a very violent throwing-up he wouldn't have had quite the smirk on his face that he did. Varric turned his eyes back to his cards, and the game continued.

Fenris reached the dwarf's suite just as the bile reached his lips, and he half ran, half fell into the room. He reached the bin at a skid, his knuckles whitening around the scratchy wicker rim of the basket as his stomach emptied itself. After what felt like hours his gut relaxed and he sat on his knees, breathing heavily.

He could hear the noise from the bar. Outside this room were at least fifty people, all drunk, some happy, some his friends. Fenris stood unsteadily, and walked over to Varric's bureau. He poured himself a glass of water, which he sipped carefully. He knew he would have to head back out there, but for now he wanted to stay where he was, part of the world and yet separate from it. The lyrium was burning, a faint dull tug under his skin that forced him to try and settle his mind. He was learning to control the eerie blue white glow of the brands, but they still hurt him, especially when he was uneasy or unsettled.

Fenris began riffling through Varric's drawers, looking for the bundle of hazel sticks he knew the dwarf would have somewhere. After a moments searching he found what he was looking for, and pulled a small twig from the bunch, which he proceeded to grind into the wooden surface of the desk until the ends were frayed. He tried not to think as he let his body take over the task of cleaning his teeth. He wondered if the dwarf kept some toothpowder in his rooms, but decided against further rooting around. He had already thrown-up in a bin, he didn't want to risk breaking something on a hunt for toothpowder. He swilled some water, and felt slightly better – a feeling that improved when he spotted a promising looking dark green bottle on the table in the centre of the dwarf's room. He walked over, already much steadier on his feet. _Say what you will, slave_, he thought to himself, _but the lyrium at least allows you to recover quickly enough to get fucked again._

Fenris didn't really decide to steal the bottle of wine, it just seemed to draw him across the room, and then, before he knew it he was pulling the cork free between his newly cleaned teeth and swigging the vingary red wine as if it were the finest vintage. It tasted terrible, but the welcoming warmth as it hit his ravaged stomach more than made up for it. He took another couple of long sips and felt like he might be ready to rejoin the group. He wondered if Varric would recognised the bottle, and the he hoped that he would. It would be easier to be the centre of a thieving scandal than a vomiting one, or, Maker's breath, an interrogation as to why he had left the table in the first place.

The elf knew, in a dim sort of way, that at some point he would have to see Hawke again, and that it would be the most awkward and horrendous moment of his life. He laughed, despite himself. It was ridiculous really, given everything he had done in his life, that the thing that he most dreaded was coming eye to eye with a human farm boy. _If only Denarius could see me now._ Fenris thought, his mind drifting back. It didn't bother him so much to think about the magister. Once he had even shied away from saying his name in his head, let alone aloud. Now... He had other things to haunt his dreams.

Fenris walked out of Varric's room and down the stairs to the main bar, the bottle of wine at his lips, his hair falling comfortingly over his face, hiding him from the stares he inevitably attracted.

And then he saw Hawke.

The mage was standing at the table, talking to Donnic. Fenris froze on the steps, the bottle of wine still at his lips. He watched as Hawke stood in profile, smiling down at the guardsman, telling him that Aveline needed him back at the barracks. Fenris shivered, recognising the smutty tone of Hawke's voice, the innuendo that he made no effort to conceal causing his words to smile even as he tried to keep a straight face.

Donnic was saying his goodbyes, and Fenris realised with horror that as soon as he stood Hawke would take his place. He had to get out of there, but how? The exit was past the table, and although busy there weren't nearly enough people to cover his escape – even if he didn't already stand out like a sore thumb. He dithered on the steps, his tattoos becoming seriously uncomfortable as his mind raced.

And then it was too late. Hawke was looking directly at him. His smile remained on his face, but as his eyes met Fenris' they froze.

Fenris just stared.

He could feel his brands heating up, and knew that if he looked down they would already be faintly glowing. There was nothing he could do to stop them, he didn't have that much control. He heart was beating like a drum, the wine bottle still at his lips as he stood motionless and trapped in the other man's gaze.

Hawke looked drawn and tired behind his beard and his smile. He was speaking to Isabella now, but he hadn't broken eye contact with Fenris and the elf realised that in a moment the whole table would realise and then everyone would be looking at him, and _they would all know._ The thought made Fenris gag, and without a second to evaluate his choice his strode past the table, through the other drinkers and out the front door into the street.

The air was cool on his skin, and the shock of it caused him to feel dizzy. He took a long pull from the wine, trying to settle the crazy beating of his heart and the sickening flush of adrenaline that was pouring through his veins. He noted without surprise that the tattoos were indeed glowing dully, and was for a moment grateful that at least they were not shining as vividly as he knew they could when he was upset.

He wasn't aware that he heard the mage approach, but it didn't matter. Years of training had honed his instincts to such a narrow focus that they required no intervention from his mind. Which was how, after a few seconds of confusion, he found himself pinning the mage to the outside wall of The Hanged Man, his fist pulled back and shimmering white, ready to be plunged into the human's chest.

Hawke smiled at him, a dropped his eyes. Fenris' gaze followed, and he saw that the apostate's right hand was crackling with magic, and was also, alarming, just inches away from Fenris' groin. The elf blushed crimson, but lowered his fist and Hawke allowed the spell to fizzle out.

"Well, hello stranger. Seems you're making a habit of storming off," Hawke said in a tone of voice that managed to convey both anger and amusement, a trick that Fenris had never known anyone else to be able to pull off.

He let his grip drop from Hawke's shoulder and shrugged. He told himself he didn't want to get drawn into another argument with the man, but even as he thought this his mouth, its disloyalty made possible thanks to the wine and the whiskey, decided to go off mission.

"It seems you're making a habit of trying to stop me," he found himself saying.

It was Hawke's turn to shrug.

The two men stood staring at each other in the street, ignoring the whores, drunks and thieves that populated the area at night. They might as well have been back in Hawke's fine old mansion for all the notice they took of the theatre that was Lowtown at night.

Fenris could still feel the soft wool of Hawke's tunic on the palm of his hand. He flexed his fingers, trying to ignore the tactile memory. If Hawke saw the movement, he said nothing.

"Mm. Well, this time I have a reason for blocking your escape. Or, at least, a reason you might deign to acknowledge."

The Tevinter managed to control his mouth, keeping it busy with another slug of the acidic wine. Hawke paused, and for a moment Fenris sensed all the unspoken words that hung on the other man's lips. The space between them, already barely twenty centre-metres, suddenly seemed full of the promises and persecutions neither would give voice to. A great wave of tiredness washed over the elf. His stomach hurt suddenly, and for a moment he remembered training, the blazing summer sun of Minrathous beating down on him. His muscled had ached then, but he had known why.

There had been more flashes since that night, after he had executed Hadriana. The memories were jumbled, more sensations than images, each one bringing with it feelings he had nothing to associate with, devoid of the context and rhythm that might actually help him to understand what had happened all those years ago. There was something there, just behind his eyes, that had come in to focus and then drifted away again, leaving behind it a feeling of sickening guilt and fear. It had been simple before that night with Hawke, before he had seen that bitch again - hells, before he had left Tevinter and the security of Denarius. Since that night he had been nursing the fear that he had made a mistake, that he should have stayed with Denarius. Slave thoughts, seeking structure and blessed compliance and so wonderfully familiar and comforting.

Uncalled for, unwanted, the thought occurred that perhaps he was making the mistake now. He shot a glance at Hawke, only the see that the mage was watching him intently, his eyebrows drawn together.

It was too much. The other man was standing too close. Fenris gulped from the wine, hoping it would mask the movement as he took a step back, but Hawke, a strange expression on his face, stepped forward to close the gap Fenris had made.

"I'm meeting the Arishock tomorrow. You speak the language, know the religion."

Hawke didn't say that he had jumped at the viscount's request, knowing it would give him the excuse he had been waiting for to approach the elf. He wondered if it showed on his face; he had never been good at hiding his emotions, and he struggled now to keep his expression neutral. "I could do with your help," he continued. He sounded for a moment unaccountably like his uncle. strained and gruff and defensive.

Fenris nodded sharply. He thought he wanted to conversation to end, but when Hawke mumbled his thanks and turned back towards the bar he suddenly reached out to him, grabbing the mage's forearm and pulling him into a kiss he had no idea he wanted until he had begun it.

It was not romantic. Both men were angry and hurt, though perhaps Hawke's pride had suffered more than the mage himself had when Fenris had left him. They were neither of them gentle men, and didn't really know how to be. For different reasons they had never had to learn to be generous, and now they kissed like sailors on shore leave, not caring who saw them or what they took from the other. Their lips pushed against the others, and Fenris responded eagerly, ignoring the maddening tickle of the human's beard against his skin. When he felt Hawke's tongue brush against his own he returned the pressure with shameful alacrity, reaching his hands behind the other man's head and pushing his hips forward to jut against Hawke. Fenris' armour was expensive and well made, but as much as the thick leather might hide his arousal it couldn't mask the way his pelvis pressed into the other man. But then Hawke pulled him in closer, his hands straying to the edges of his cuirass, and Fenris stopped caring.

Justice watched as Hawke took the valesh'engris in his hands, positioning it's face in such a way that he could deepen the kiss. It wasn't part of the plan, but Justice could see the fingerprints of his sisters on the two men, and wondered what had caused them to change their focus.

It was difficult for him to communicate with Hope and Desire. Each time the body fell into sleep he tried to make contact, but the body complicated matters. It wanted control, and though the pull of its original owner was demonising the Fade was such transient world that the boundaries between the two were more blurred.

Still, it didn't really matter how the war was started as long as it was. As long as the circles fell and the finite control the mages had over the Veil was lost. The human was everything he had come to expect from his sisters, and if the valesh'engris needed to be so attached to him then so be it.

The spirit watched as the two men grasped at each other, completely lost in the sensation and taste of the other. It was interesting to observe; Justice had been worried that the valesh'engris would leave the group after the frozen human had found him. The arrival of Hadriana had left the spirit in a quandary. He hadn't expected her, and had had to play his role completely unrehearsed. It made him wonder if he should in fact risk more frequent meetings in the Fade. But then he had realised that it was likely Hope and Desire hadn't seen her arrival either, masked as she was by her walled-in soul. And, despite himself and his commitment to the way the world must be he had been satisfied when the valesh'engris got its vengeance.

The way the world must be was all that mattered, and Justice didn't see that his part in the plan was so radically altered by what was happening.

He watched as Hawke pulled away, his expression suddenly dark. He said something to the valesh'engris which caused it to open, and for a second Justice could hear the music of his home. The valesh'engris closed, and the music receded with the light of the lyrium. The valesh'engris spat at the mages feet and stalked off, presumably back to its shelter. Justice wasn't sure if Hawke would follow, but after a moment the mage went back into the bar, adjusting his robe.

Justice set his face, adjusting it from the blank expression it tended to settle on when he wasn't paying attention and followed the valesh'engris to check it reached it's destination safely. Afterwards he would return to the bar, and talk to Hawke about the Circle and the Chantry – or any other prejudices that came up. Whatever the twins had in mind in so throwing the valesh'engris and the mage together could not be so radical that it forbade Justice from continuing his campaign to convert Hawke into the Champion.

Somewhere inside the body Anders sobbed, but Justice could not hear it.

* * *

><p>I am on twitter! -at-thepumpkinninja<p> 


	31. Chapter 31

**9.21 Dragon**

**Denarius' Manor, Minrathous**

Denarius resisted the urge to press his face up to the window. He had been watching as the weapon went through its training, and so far had wasted an hour of his morning gawping like a school boy on his first trip to the Coliseum. He smiled, pleased with the analogy. He really did feel like a child – the world suddenly was full of excitement and mystery, each new day bringing with it the thrill of discovery.

He'd had the weapon –_the elf - Leto _- _I must be careful - _in his house for almost six weeks now, and each day had been a delight. Denarius now found himself whistling under his breath, a habit he thought abandoned to his childhood; he couldn't stop smiling, and even the smallest things would elicit machine gun staccatos of laughter from him. Really, it was a good thing he was running his mansion on a skeleton staff, and that he had moved all his Senatorial duties out of the city. If he were to be seen in such a giddy state the rumours of his madness would no longer need confirmation.

He watched from above as the elf went through the points, easily hefting the impossible weight of the sword to block the guard master's lunges. Leto made it seem effortless, but Denarius knew no punches were being pulled - he wouldn't allow it. The weapon had to be tested, and, Maker be blessed, was showing itself, _him_self, to be more than equal to whatever was thrown at it. Him. Denarius was not usually given to confusion, but after a lifetime of imaging the weapon, knowing it was his destiny to master it, he was finding it difficult to think of Leto as anything other than a possession. Still, as long as he didn't slip up in front of the elf, it didn't really matter. And in a few months, the weapon would truly be his, and it wouldn't matter anyway.

_Not long now, _Denarius thought joyfully as Leto, bored of defence, suddenly lashed out at the human guard master, knocking his feet out from under him and bringing the tip of his sword to rest with insulting casualness on the man's Adam's apple.

Denarius laughed aloud, a great whoop of joy that echoed around the empty study. It occurred to him that he really would have to get control of himself, or he would have to spend the rest of the day shuttered away. But then, didn't he deserve to enjoy his success? It was temptation enough not to go and speak with the elf directly; surely he could be forgiven a little happiness?

He lifted his hand to the warm glass, flexing his fingers as he watched Leto help his sparring partner to his feet.

Denarius had managed to answer a lot of questions since he had first met Hadriana at the beginning of the summer. He still cursed his short sightedness in not getting hold of his own Dalish elf, but he was pragmatic. In fact, such was the efficiency of his mind that he could recognise how much more beneficial it was that he had _not _been the one to find the elven siblings.

With the knowledge the sister had provided him he had confirmed Hadriana's claim about the necessary willingness of the subject to undergo the process, and he was sensible enough to realise that if Leto had come directly to him he wouldn't have been driven enough to make the operation successful. No, no, it had all worked out as he had planned. He regretted only that he hadn't trusted himself, trusted his location spell and his ability to work the lyrium. He had wasted a lot of money on all those failed attempts, but no matter. Money was not something he was in short supply of.

It never occurred to him to account for all the subjects who had died, half mad and screaming in agony. When he thought of them at all, it was as data sets; numbers and variables that would allow him to build on the research of Nereda - and, he now knew, the Pantheon, the eleven gods. According to Varania there were three gods that could manipulate the Fade and reality, who had dominion over both. The twin brothers Falon'Din and Dirthamen Denarius had known of, but not the third, the missing piece: Fen'Harel, the god who had deceived his kind, and separated the worlds. The Dread Wolf, Lord of Tricksters, Roamer of the Beyond, Bringer of Nightmares... that was what the elf girl had called it, the wolf who could walk between the two worlds, who could speak to the gods and to men. So many titles for something so simple.

It was these three gods' sigils that would form the basis of the lyrium vallaslin. It had to be the three, the trinity. That was why Nereda had failed. She had only known of the twins, and so had failed to include the sign of Fen'Harel in her designs. The result of her experiments, the hideous creature Denarius had discovered and abandoned deep in the underground Thaig, had been the cause of her own betrayal by both the dwarves and the Imperium.

It was all wonderfully poetic. Denarius, a man of patterns and chilly logic, appreciated the symmetry, the comparison between the betrayal of the gods and the manner in which his prize had been delivered to him. There was something satisfying about it, and although the magister was not a superstitious man he couldn't stop himself seeing it as a sign.

The weapon even moved like a wolf, lean, fast and vicious and completely unafraid.

The magister watched as Leto danced across the sand, transforming the brutality of battle to something delicate and beautiful. It was no good trying to resist. He dropped the wooden blind, tidied his papers away and walked down to the training yard.

**9.35 Dragon**

**The Hanged Man, Lowtown, Kirkwall**

"The problem is, what else can you do with them?" Carver asked, exasperated and angry.

"What do you mean, _do with them_? Why does anything have to be done with them?" Hawke sharply replied, placing his tankard down with ominous care. Carver bridled, knowing his brother well enough to recognise the deceptive calm before the storm, but didn't back down.

"Look, don't get me wrong-"

"Really? How exactly should I get you when you-"

"Maker, Hawke, shut up, let the boy speak-"

"I'm not a boy, I'm a knight of the Templars-"

"And don't we know it-"

The argument had been going for over an hour, and showed no signs of calming. They were supposed to be celebrating a new year, and Hawke's official appointment as Champion of Kirkwall. However, as was increasingly the case, the conversation had turned to the Mage Situation, and had quickly devolved into bickering, not all of it good-natured. Only Varric, bored and slightly saddened, didn't participate.

"So, dear brother, tell me what should we do with _them_," Hawke said.

"Look," Carver replied, trying to be reasonable. Unfortunately for the younger Hawke being reasonable was not a family trait, and he in fact sounded patronising and bored. Isabella groaned into her whiskey. "All I'm saying is, whether you like it or not, mages attract demons. It's all very well spouting on about equal rights but the fact of the matter is, mages aren't equal. They're a danger to themselves and everyone around them."

Hawke opened his mouth to say something about a particular mage certainly being a danger to idiot Templars who spoke out their asses, but Anders jumped in. "How can you possibly think that? How many times has Hawke saved your life? Or you father? You wouldn't be in the blighted Templars if it wasn't for mages!" Anders, missing the irony of his statement, waved his arms around in emphasis, and narrowly missed spilling Fenris' bottle of wine. The elf growled in the back of his throat, and moved the bottle to his lips.

"Oh yes, of course. Garret's special, isn't he?" Carver spat.

"Damn right," Hawke confirmed, talking a long pull from his ale, grinning broadly around the edges of the cheap tin tankard. He had learnt it frustrated his bother more if he took his spiteful jibes at face value, rather than rising to them. He was rewarded now by the spectacle of Carver's face turning an angry shade of red.

"As much as the idea of Hawke being locked away in a tower, preferably in chains and leather, appeals," Isabella said with a wink, "you must admit that the Circles are little more than prisons?" she directed this comment at Carver, but it was Fenris who answered her.

"There is nothing to admit. Admission implies guilt, and I see nothing to be guilty about," the Tevinter rumbled, his accent thickened by wine and annoyance.

Anders actually scoffed, a sound so perfectly onomatopoeic Varric wondered how he could use it in one of his stories. Hawke leaned back, resting his arm along the back of his chair in a fairly good imitation of casualness that fooled no one. "For a man who dreamt of freedom you seem pretty quick to enslave a whole group of people," Hawke laughed, only the narrowing of his eyes betraying his anger.

"An interesting point," Fenris replied from behind his fringe. "However, as I understand it, it is the _dreams_ of mages that provide them their freedom. What greater freedom than the escape from their curse that possession offers them? Ahhhh, but then, I am speaking to the man who counts a blood mage and an abomination amongst his closest friends, am I not?"

"Being possessed isn't a death sentence, it's a prison – just like the Circle." Hawke countered.

Fenris snorted, and took another drink. Isabella turned to face the elf, her face a picture of curiosity and mischief. "Isn't that true? Everyone knows the person and the demon are forced to share a body – look at Anders, he's not dead. At least, not above the waist" She added with a grin. Anders' smiled, but his face had taken on a strangely still quality and Isabella wondered for a second if she had overstepped herself. As sensitive as a weather vane, the pirate had picked up on the increasingly complicated triangle that the healer and the elf had created around Hawke. But then, life was for adventures, and watching the two squabble had its merits.

Fenris shrugged, and for a moment it seemed he wouldn't answer. The whole table was looking at him now, wondering what he would say. He knew that it was only really Isabella that liked him… and possibly Hawke… and for the most part he didn't care. The younger Hawke was well-meaning but simple, seeing the world only in terms of how it favoured his brother at his expense. Varric seemed loyal enough to Hawke, but he had no principles that Fenris could discern. As for the abomination and the other elf, the blood mage… Fenris couldn't have found the will to care what they thought about him even if he'd been so inclined. But Hawke cared about them all, and Fenris… would not like to see him upset, especially not when this was supposed to be his celebration.

"It is nothing. Something Hadriana said once," he said after a moment. Hawke noticed that he ran his hand through his hair as he spoke, though there was no change in the tone of the tattoos.

"If it can help us understand possession better you have a duty to tell us," Carver said earnestly, pleased to allude to his newly found authority.

"I hardly see it is my responsibility to teach you how to perform your duties."

"Every citizen has a responsibility to help the Templars. We are the only line of defence against the danger mages possess to themselves and to others."

"Yes, yes," Hawke interrupted, his eyes still on the elf, "we've all read the pamphlets."

"Oh, fuck you Hawke," Carver snapped, turning on his brother. The conversation moved on, everyone now discussing exactly how much loyalty anyone owed to the city. Predictably they all agreed the answer was 'very little', but could not agree on the reasons why. Isabella moved to sit next to Fenris, curling her legs underneath her and leaning into him. Fenris tried not to stare at the expanse of flesh her pose exposed. He knew she found it amusing to flirt with him, and sometime he enjoyed it. But his mood had taken a turn for the worse, and all he wanted was to be left alone with his wine.

"So, sweet, what's up with you?"

"Nothing," he replied.

"Bollocks. I've known you for four, no, five years now and I have never seen you miss a chance to lay into the mages. Is it Hawke?"

Fenris started, and then cursed in Arcanium. It didn't matter, he knew Isabella would have caught the way his body jumped at the mention of Hawke's name. Damn woman.

"No."

"Now say that again, only this time try to sound convincing."

"_Venhedis_. It is not Hawke, that is.. I do not wish to ruin his celebration, that is all."

Isabella smirked, and waggled her eyebrows in a manner that was both ridiculous and horrendously suggestive. "I'm sure you could find a way to make it up to him," she said just loudly enough for him and Hawke, sitting opposite them, to hear. Hawke shot them a glance, his face a mask of innocence and Fenris wondered for a moment if the mage had put her up to the question. He was now the centre of their attention, not a good place to be at the best of times. For a moment he wondered what would happen if Hawke ever transferred his affection to the pirate. She would certainly reciprocate, of that he had no doubt. They were so devious and amoral… they could easily change the world, if they put their minds to it. It surprised him how much the thought upset him. It had been over a year since he and Hawke had been together, and although he couldn't stop himself thinking about the mage, he had thought he was at least over the crippling jealousy he felt whenever Hawke showed a preference for anyone that was above his normal level of curiosity. Apparently not.

"I have told you," he replied to Isabella, carefully ignoring Hawke, "it was just something Hadriana said. Long ago. It's probably not even true, she was hardly the most trustworthy of people."

"Maker, how dull. Fine, keep your secrets – I'll get them out of you one way or another, anyway," Isabella huffed, and went to next to Varric, knowing she could rely on him for scandal.

Fenris had had enough. He began the complicated job of putting on his gauntlets, pulling the buckles tight between his teeth. Not fast enough, however, as Hawke suddenly took the seat Isabella had vacated. Fenris didn't stop, but he did perhaps bite into the leather straps harder than was necessary, pulling on them violently in his haste to get away.

"Don't panic, I'm not gonna try and stop you going. Seems to me it's better when you're not around." Fenris winced, but didn't respond. "Mind you… the last time I followed you out of here, I seem to remember you being quite welcoming…" Hawke didn't miss the flush that sprung up on the bronze skin of the elf's neck and cheeks, and felt his stomach flip. It annoyed him how much he still wanted the other man, and Hawke was not a man used to denial. It was probably why, he reasoned to himself later, that he said the one thing he knew would upset the elf:

"You made two mistakes tonight, you know," he said at low whisper, knowing Fenris' sharp ears would hear what any human would miss. "One, as I remember it the only person at this table who's been imprisoned by his dreams is _you_. Two, you told me once that Magisters _never lie_. A matter of honour, you said. I reckon I know why you told the first lie. I can't say I'm not hurt, but I'm used to that from you. What I can't work out is the second lie. I guess you're still pretty well trained, protecting your mistress even now, huh? Maybe there's still hope for me yet."

Fenris hit him square in his face, and walked out. Later Hawke counted himself lucky the Tevinter hadn't used the lyrium – perhaps, he dared to hope, the elf didn't hate him as much as he secretly feared.

**9.21 Dragon**

**Denarius' Manor, Minrathous, Tevinter**

Leto bent double, catching his breath. His muscles ached, but, he was pleased to note, they now longer screamed out in pain. Rather they burned with the gentle, solid heat of use rather than the white hot agony of his first weeks of training. Slowly he was rebuilding his stamina after months of sickness, trapped deep underground. In fact he dared to hope he was improving, that he was perhaps better than he had been. Descimus, the guard master, had fought for years in the Qunari war, and was an expert at both hand to hand combat and weaponry. He was also an extremely dirty fighter, and Leto was picking up any number of tricks. He had, he realised now, only really known how to track and hunt, skills that required patience and observation. Now, however, he was learning to fight, to block and parry and not to hesitate. He was learning to trust his body, to trust his weapon and his instincts.

He was learning fast.

"Would you like some water?"

Leto lifted his head, and saw that Tiberius had come out onto the field. He nodded and smiled at the healer, but when he turned to look for Descimus he realised the other man had left. Leto had noticed how none of the other slaves would stay when Tiberius was with him. It struck him as odd, but then he didn't know the Imperium, or the social norms that humans obeyed. Perhaps it was considered rude to remain present when a healer and his patient were together? Or maybe Tiberius was in some way of a lower status than the others, and as such they didn't want to associate with him? Leto shook his head, trying to clear his mind of pointless speculation. It didn't matter how this world worked, he had no intention of remaining here any longer than he needed to rescue Varania and Aryion. But he liked Tiberius, and it made him sad to think the man might be isolated from his kind. Leto knew what it was like to feel alone, and he wished there was something he could do for the mage.

Tiberius brought him a skin of water, and Leto took it gratefully. He smiled at the mage before taking a long pull. The water was icy cold, and he wondered if Tiberius had frozen it slightly – there was no way the water would be that cool naturally.

"I need to bathe. Would you like to walk with me?" he asked, and was pleased when Tiberius nodded in agreement.

"I was watching you from inside," the healer said as they walked back towards the house.

"I dropped my shoulder too early, Descimus was able to land a blow that would've pulled my arm off. Descrimus says that fighting is like cards: you need to hide your intention and watch for any clues your opponent gives away."

Tiberius glanced at the elf, his blue eyes showing nothing but friendly interest. "You admire the man?"

Leto gave a kind of half shrugged, not sure how to answer. "He reminds me of my father.. my step-father. He doesn't speak often, but when he does it's always important. I used to…" but he trailed off, unsure why he had mentioned his family. Suddenly an imagine of his step-father sprung up in his mind, as vivid as he were there again. Varania was still a baby, and Gideon was telling Leto about the hunt, about how important it was not to give away your position. He had told Leto, who had sat wide eyed on his lap, that it wasn't enough to just be silent, that a good hunter became part of the forest, he didn't fight it or hide from it, but simply let the trees and the fauna mask him. That way, Gideon had told him, it wouldn't matter if the prey looked him dead in the eye – all it would see would be the forest.

Leto wasn't sure where the memory had come from – he had forgotten it long ago, buried by time and life, but now that he had remembered it, it seemed strange to him that he had ever forgotten.

Tiberius reached across, and tucked his hair behind his ear. Leto didn't really care for the gesture, but he had learnt to tolerate the healers eccentricities, and he was well used to the human fussy over him. "Tell me about your father," Tiberius suggested softly.

What struck Leto later was not that the mage had asked, but that he had acquiesced. He had ended up walking in lazy circles around the gardens with the other man, telling him about his family and the clan. They had only come in when the sun had gone down and it was difficult to see where they were going.

Leto stretched out on his bed, used now to the soft mattress and feather pillows. He should have been practicing, but instead he found himself thinking about the humans he knew. Callum, who had once been his friend. Cassandra, the woman he loved and who had taught him what it felt like to be close to someone. And now this man Tiberius. Leto wasn't sure why, but there was something about him that made him feel comfortable and safe.

As he lay on his bed, staring at the tiled ceiling, he remembered how he had felt growing up as a child, the sense of inexplicable loss he felt whenever they had travelled south. He could easily recall that feeling, like his body had been hollowed out and discarded. And then, whenever they had returned to the Imperium the feeling had disappeared, like smoke in a beam of light. He had always felt most settled when in Tevinter. Tiberius made him feel like that - easy and safe, as if all the terrible events of the last year had happened to someone else.

Leto wondered if he should be distrustful of the sensation, but his dismissed the thought. He recognised the feeling, and in its familiarity he thought he could rely on it. There is, after all, something so sweet about recognition and elves, just like humans, were ultimately creatures of experience. They too, whether consciously or not, gravitate towards the known, towards habits of thought and action. Tiberius wanted to help him, and was friendly and kind, and Leto felt comforted by the way the man made him feel. Leto drifted off to sleep, happy and tired and confident that soon he would have his family back, and Cassandra in his arms.


	32. Chapter 32

**9.21 Dragon**

**Denarius' Manor, Minrathous**

Leto charged at the dummy, the early morning dew making the sand clump between his toes as he thundered across the training ground. He brought the blade down hard across the shoulder of the model, ripping easily through the metal chest-plate, exposing the straw and sawdust beneath. The air filled with dust and he double over, wheezing in the cloudy debris. Once he caught his breath he looked at his victim, and was pleased to see he had managed to not only cut through the metal but to wedge his sword deep into the chest cavity. The dummy looked like a pat of butter with a knife left in it at a careless angle. Leto smiled thinly, and began to tug the blade free. Right handed, this was the third time in a row he had managed to cleave open the dummy on the left side, aiming for the neck and bringing the blade down towards the belly. Time to try with his left hand now, naturally weaker and less precise. Descimus had taught him to value ambidexterity, and Leto was determined to build up the control and flexibility of his left hand.

He walked back to the starting point, and faced his enemy again, testing the weight of the sword in his left hand. When he was happy he had found the balance he charged again, this time aiming for the right shoulder. Later he would practise the same move with a great-sword, a two handed blade that was impossibly heavy but which, if used with control, offered more ferocity and a greater arc. And Leto was not in the mood to be gentle.

The sun was barely up, the sky still unwashed and pink. Leto had been fighting since the dawn chorus, ignoring the chill in the air and the dampness of the ground on his bare feet. Summer was drawing to a close, the shortening days and lengthening nights driving the elf to distraction. It was nearly a year since he had come upon his family, his clan, dead and smouldering in the morning light. Even the smell of the approaching autumn, the earthy russet scent of the leaves as they changed colour, made him feel sick.

He had been here too long. How long did it take to train a guard, anyway? And why was he the only one being trained? Why wasn't Descimus, clearly an expert fighter, not in the city protecting his master, or out in the war? When would he be taken to Minrathous? How would he find his sister when he was there? Would he have to kill anyone? Everyone? Who was this Denarius? When would he meet him?

Questions circled in his mind like flies, buzzing in his head and impossible to catch and hold on to. So instead he trained, pushing himself to exhaustion from sun up to sun down.

**9.12 Dragon**

**The Drylands, near Antiva**

Gideon waited outside the Keepers land boat, his fingers beating impatiently against his folded arms. He was well used to being kept waiting by Elspeth, but he still couldn't stop himself for wondering if she was keeping him there, standing outside her caravan like a fool, out of spite. He tried to dismiss the thought. What had happened between them had been long, long ago, before she had become Keeper and he had married and started his own family. She was busy, he told himself. She would come to him as soon as she was able. Pat, pat, pat went his fingers, openly defying his efforts to relax.

He heard a yell, and turned his head to see the children playing. Leto had caught Varania up in his arms and was spinning her around, faster and faster until she was screaming and laughing, her fear and excitement all bound up in one long, loud cry. He supposed he should call them off, or at least insist they kept the noise down. But instead he watched them, a small crooked smile playing across his lips. Gideon wasn't given to emotional displays, but the smile that danced across his face was genuine. He worried about the boy. So often he would catch him alone, watching his sister from a distance as she played and rough-housed with the other children. He knew Leto thought no one could see him, and although the boys was certainly gifted when it came to hiding himself away, Gideon was a trained hunter and could spot him easily. The boy was so quiet, so sad, and, Gideon had no trouble admitting to himself, just a little bit frightening. It wasn't normal for a boy of his age to be quite so skilled at stealth or so strong for his size. And now he had asked his father to take him out on the hunt.

He frowned again. Elspeth's business might well be important, but this was _his family_. He turned to face the wooden door, banging his fist against it so hard that the paint, already old and dry, began to flake. Years ago he had helped Elspeth to decorate her wagon, but, like so many things between them now, the painted flowers and moons had faded, and needed to be restored, or painted over.

The door finally opened, and there she stood, older and thinner than he pictured her in his mind, smiling at his raised fist as if he were holding his arms open to hug her. It annoyed him how she was always able to make him feel like a fool, but he had learnt to push the feeling down. He wasn't there to talk about them, he was there to get answers.

"Gideon? _Aneth ara_ - Welcome! It's good to see you, you don't visit me anymore..." She spoke with such genuine warmth that he was thrown for a moment, not sure how to respond. He had come expecting an argument, but instead she seemed pleased and surprised to see him.

"Elspeth. No... I'm... There is so little time, nowadays. It's difficult to get away. Kids, you know..." he finished lamely.

"I understand," she said with a smile, and for a moment he believed she really did. "But you're here now, and that is enough. Would you like some tea?"

He shook his head no, but wasn't surprised when she delved back into her caravan. Her words were shouted over the clatter of pans and cups being pulled from shelves he knew would be disorganised and overcrowded. She called out inane questions as she made tea, only half listening to his replies.

When she finally came to sit with him, Gideon was caught between annoyance and laughter. Elspeth had already been a grown woman when he had first noticed her, and now the age difference between them was unavoidable. But it cheered him that, despite the lines at her eyes, her faded vallaslin and parchment thin skin she was still disorganised and slightly manic.

He sipped his tea. She had made it in the Tevinter style, brewed strong and served black with lemon. She knew he preferred it served with milk, and he wondered if she had done it deliberately, knowing why he wanted to talk to her.

"He's getting worse, Elspeth."

The Keeper sighed, and Gideon felt angry again. What right did she have to sigh? It was his son, his family; she didn't know what it was like, living constantly on edge, always worried. Gideon had watched how the knot of anxiety he carried with him had completely destroyed his wife, until now she was little more than a bundle of neves. His cup clanged as it hit the saucer, spilling the scalding brown liquid over his thighs. It burnt, but he didn't notice.

"We can't keep moving him. Every year it gets worse. He frightens me, he frightens his mother. Varania knows about it; I think she's too young to really understand, but she knows it's not normal-"

"Who's to say what normal is?"

"Dont give me that. It's not just us, he wakes the others as well. No one will play with him," Gideon's voice was rising now, and he tried to calm down. He took a deep breath. "It's not fair, Elspeth. It's not fair to him, to us... To everyone."

Gideon realised he was standing over the woman, and he started. Suddenly he felt ridiculous, towering over Elspeth, who remained seated, calmly sipping her tea. He sat again.

"There is something surrounding him. Something that is keeping him away from us, and is trying to pull him back to it. I'm sorry Gideon, I am really am."

Something in her voice told him she meant it, that the sorrow she felt was absolutely real, and was delivered with such sincerity it made him pause. Too much had happened between them, and he had often assumed her insistence that the clan kept moving, despite the distress it caused his step-son, was some kind of petty revenge. But he realised he knew this woman as well as it was ever possible to know another, and even though she was Keeper, even though she had once been something more, he knew _her. _And there was something more... She really was sorry, Gideon didn't doubt. But he didn't believe her sorrow was for Leto.

"You said there was a spell, but that wasn't the true, was it?" he asked, knowing and yet dreading the answer.

"There is indeed a spell around the boy. The spell pulls him back to the city where he was found. Where you, Gideon, found him." For a moment her tone changed, and her eyes became cold. But it passed quickly, like the tang of winter on an autumn breeze, gone but not forgotten.

Gideon had been ready for the way she crafted her words, and was quick with his reply: "But that isn't everything, is it?"

"No."

"For pity's sake, Elspeth, tell me what's wrong with the boy! He's up half the night now, and we're barely out of the north!"

"Well, then, I'll make you some more medicine and-"

"_Halam sahlin!_ We can't just keep drugging the lad six months of the year! And what about his, his," he waved his hands in circles, trying to find words to express the stillness of the boy, the strength he had no right to possess, the odd way he spoke and carried himself, and Gideon's fears now that Leto had begun to show an interest in the hunt... And the fact those fears were not limited to the child's safety. But he was not a man of words, and had no way to communicate such complexities. In the end he had to hope that she understood, that she still knew him well enough to know what he felt, even if he couldn't explain it to her.

Elspeth looked trapped, and it took a moment for her to answer and when she did, it seemed like she was saying something she did not want to say. "There is nothing to be frightened of. The child simply suffers night terrors, no doubt as a result of some shem blood magic. The Tevinter Imperium is known to be the worst of all the new cities. The spell will fade, given time." Even to Gideon's untrained ears it sounded rehearsed, as it had been drilled into her by rote, and now she could regurgitate the words without even pretending that they had any meaning. Unfortunately, he asked the wrong question.

"If you don't know, why can't you ask the other Keepers? If we cannot stay in Tevinter, why waste out time travelling south? The _Arlathvhen_ is soon."

Elspeth sighed. The Arlathvhen was the worst place to take the boy, but she knew she would not be able to convince Gideon. The man had decided that she was somehow orchestrating the misery his step-son was suffering. It saddened her more than she would ever be able to say how much his misjudgement of her character hurt her, but she understood why he needed to see her in that way.

"I have raised the matter of the boy before. They do not want to be involved, Gideon. They would have us throw the child out of the clan as it is, you know this."

Gideon was angry. He couldn't understand why she wouldn't help him – it was clear to anyone that the child suffered when they left the Imperium and what difference would it make if they stayed? Even if there were a spell holding the boy, it seemed like it was content just to have him in Tevinter. The country was large, and the clan small. They could spend years moving within the borders of Tevinter and never come across anything larger than a small village. _There was no need for them to put the child through it_, he knew. And now she was trying to make out that _she_ was the one trying to aid Leto?

"Perhaps you just don't want to be proven wrong. _Hahren_," he added angrily, knowing it would hurt her. Later, he would lie awake in bed ashamed of the flash of triumph he felt then, as his words landed and he saw her flinch.

The air and dust between them clung thickly to their skin, the Antivan heat and history weighing down on the conversation. Elspeth was the first to drop her eyes. She suddenly seemed old, and for a second she was frail. Gideon thought of Aryion. He might have loved Elspeth once, but he didn't regret his marriage. The moment he had found her and the baby, near death and so thin, he had wanted to help them. He had seen in Aryion someone who needed him, someone he could help, and who would also love him – things which Elspeth could never have given him. He had carried her and Leto all the way back to the camp, and had supported and cared for them ever since. He loved Leto fiercely, and it never entered his mind to be jealous or angry that he was not his blood born son. The mother's line was always considered stronger, and anyway, he had Varania to carry on his own lineage, if such a thing ever did come to matter to him. It wasn't so simple, he knew that. Gideon wasn't a fool, but he wasn't a thinker either, and he couldn't understand what was happening. He just knew that something was fundamentally wrong, and that this woman who had once loved him now refused to help him.

"Please, Elspeth," he asked, trying one last time to reach the answers he sensed she held, just out of his reach, hidden behind lore and magic. "Help me to keep him safe."

The Keeper reached forward, and for a moment Gideon thought she was going to take his hand. But she paused suddenly, and an expression of such horror passed over her face that he thought for a minute she was having some kind of attack. He glanced over his shoulder, but he could see nothing there. The children were still playing, their screams floating through the dry heat, drowning out the more mundane sounds of the camp. He turned back to her. Perhaps no one else would have noticed, but Gideon did. She had regained her composure, and if he hadn't have known her he would have assumed he had imagined the way her skin had paled and her eyes widen; but he did know her, and he saw the pulse that was jumping in her neck.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned.

"It is nothing. But…" Elspeth brought her eyes to meet his, and the look he saw in her made him feel afraid. "Gideon… if you love the boy, and you love your wife, your daughter, the clan… Me…"

"Yes?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper. It seemed colder, as if a gust of frozen air had blown over him, and his skin had begun to prickle. Elspeth looked over his shoulder again. She reached out her hand to him, but then pulled it away before she made contact.

"Kill him. Kill him now, while he is young and it is not too late. There are things… terrible things in motion. I cannot stop them. I'm not sure the Creators could, even if they so wished. The old ones are returning, and the wolf rides with them."

Gideon jumped to his feet, fighting the impulse to slap her. _How dare she say such a thing?_ He knew she hadn't forgiven him, but to suggest… it was unthinkable, unforgiveable. He looked down at her, and saw how old she was, how pathetic. But she was his Keeper. He swore at her, the words slithering from between his teeth like snakes, their poison seeping into her. He turned on his heel and left.

For a moment Elspeth wanted to run after him, to explain herself. She wanted to tell him everything she knew, which was so very little. But she knew she could not. _What was going to happen was going to happen_, she knew that. All she could do was keep the other Keepers informed, and try to keep the child away from the Shem for as long as possible – she could only prey that they found the answer before whatever it was that was trying to take hold of the child found him.

She turned her eyes towards the wolf, and watched as it followed Leto and Varania into the centre tent. For a second she didn't recognise its face, but when she did she knew she had been right not to confide in Gideon. She wished only she had managed better to hold her tongue. Gideon never spoke to her again, and when she requested Varania be her First, it had been Leto's permission she had sought.

**9.21 Dragon**

**Denarius' Manor, Minrathous**

Tiberius sat on the end of the bed, calmly folding bandages. Leto was pacing up and down the small room, unable to calm down. Russet leaves fluttered against the glass window, carried by the breeze to rest in great piles that took the meagre staff of household slaves hours to sweep away.

"When will I be taken to Minrathous? You said yourself I am healthy enough. I know I am ready. Descimus keeps me here. Why?" The elf had been asking the same questions for the last hour, his impatience growing with each cycle. Tiberius sat and listened, saying nothing. He had at first tried to calm Leto down, but after being snapped he had fallen to silence. Leto didn't need or want to talk, he just wanted to let off steam.

Tiberius watched him as he paced up and down the room. He wondered if he had left it too long, but he had wanted to be sure that the elf depended on him before he took him to the city. If his plan was to work at all, Leto needed to trust him completely, and Tiberius just wasn't sure. But then, if he continued to keep him here, he was beginning to fear the elf would simply escape. And although it would be hard for him to get far before he was picked up, it would no doubt force Tiberius to disappear, and he wasn't ready for that yet.

_It's been five months; either the elf is ready or he isn't. _

The healer picked up the pile of bandages he had folded, and began to place them tidily in the wicker basket he had brought with him. His heart was beating, and he had to concentrate not to rush. It had been a long time since he had felt like this, and as much as he was worried about the outcome of his decision, he also felt exhilarated.

He lifted his clear blue eyes to Leto, and asked the elf to stop pacing. He was relieved when, after a moment's hesitation, Leto did so. It was another little sign that he was ready.

"If you really wish it, I can take you to the city." He phrased it carefully, and it sounded to Leto exactly as he would have wished: slightly reluctant, but with an edge of excitement.

Leto jumped onto the bed, folding his longs legs beneath him as fluidly and gracefully as a dancer. Tiberius caught his breath as the elf picked up his hands, pale and soft skinned, and held them in his own tanned and callused ones. He looked up to see that rarest of treasures, a wide grin stretching across Leto's face.

"Really?" Leto asked, his voice breathy with urgency.

Tiberius laughed, delighted with the reaction his words had elicited. "Really. It is time you met your master, and besides it's getting too cold to train out here. You need to be with the other guards, training in the Senate."

Leto's smile looked like it would topple him, and Tiberius couldn't help but mirror it. Leto still had his hands in his own, and Tiberius wondered, as the elf started talking about the city, if he had forgotten he held them. He looked down at the elf's hands and arms, remembering the way his skin had felt. His fingers and palms were rough and dry, but the rest of him had been as smooth and hard as pearl. Tiberius licked his lips, and only just managed to respond appropriately to the wildly over-excited things the elf was saying.

He thought he had probably given the elf too much wine, judging by the way his usual inhibitions had suddenly dropped. He allowed his mind to wander for a moment, wondering what would happen if he were to reach forward and take Leto's face in his hands, softly bringing their lips together. Would the boy hit him, or would he succumb? How would he taste, full of wine and air and health?

Tiberius shook the idea from his head. He couldn't risk it all now, and although the temptation was killing him, he reminded himself that, soon enough, he would own the elf completely. _Just be patient_, he told himself.

After about twenty minutes, Tiberius excused himself. There was only so much a man could take, and despite everything he was only human. Leto waved him goodbye, and as he walked through the door the healer fancied he heard the elf falling backwards onto the bed with a soft thump. As Tiberius exited Leto's room, Denarius entered the hallway. He was hot and flushed, and wondered if it was worth risking his cover and calling one of the slaves to his room. _Probably not._ The whole charade was hanging on a thread, if he did anything to strain it, it would snap.

It didn't occur to Denarius, as he walked back to his library alone, to wonder when he had started thinking of the experiment in terms of the owning the elf and not the weapon.

* * *

><p>I am on twitter! -at-thepumpkinninja :-)<p> 


	33. Chapter 33

**9.35 Dragon**

**Fenris' Mansion, Hightown, Kirkwall**

Isabella was bored. She poured another measure of the sticky, dark rum that was the only kind available in the Free Marches. For a moment she felt homesick, and wondered how difficult it would be, really, to just stand up, walk out the door and not stop walking until she reached Llomeryn.

Who would stop her? Hawke maybe, but then again, maybe not. He was so caught up in his intrigues and plots with the First Enchanter and Anders these days... And, she thought with a pang of regret, he hadn't tried to find her the last time she had left. Varric perhaps would miss her, but she doubted he would do anything more than have his spies assure him she arrived safe and well, wherever it was she decided to run to. Merryl was too far gone to even notice if she did leave. The little female mage, once so naive and good natured, was lost almost completely to her obsession and guilt.

_Guilt, guilt, guilt - Maker be damned, I'm drowning in it. _It wasn't fun anymore, bumming around with Hawke and the gang. Somewhere in the last couple of years everything had changed. What had once been adventurous days followed by drunken, flirtatious nights had become heavy silences filled with resentment or bitter, spiteful arguments.

_There's no romance anymore _Isabella thought sadly, and she knew that the best days, filled with fun and violence and thievery, were gone.

"Are you listening to me?" Fenris interrupted her thoughts. He sounded annoyed, but Isabella had long ago realised that most comments that the Tevinter uttered sounded brash or angry - it didn't mean that was how he felt. She had never been to the Imperium, but she wondered if all Tevinters sounded similarly rude to southern ears. _Probably not._

"No, pet, I wasn't. I've heard it all before - it's boooooring," she stretched out the vowel, not caring if she sounded childish or petulant. Despite so many similarities, in that way she and Hawke were very different creatures - Hawke always worried about sounding the child, perhaps because he had been forced into adulthood, rather than reaching it in his own time, in his own way. Or perhaps because Isabella honestly didn't care what Fenris thought of her, and Hawke did.

"What do you want to do, then? Play cards?" he replied scornfully.

"Can we play Templar and Apostate – I'll let you tie me up?"

"Why do you persist in making comments like that? I refuse you every time."

The pirate yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth. "Well, you never know... In Llomeryn they say 'may your wishes come true'. It's supposed to be a curse, or a threat. Something like that. Never understood it myself. If my wishes came true you'd be naked and oiled, ready to go." Isabella giggled, and then hiccuped. She was more drunk than she realised.

Fenris smiled. He stopped pacing, and took up his seat opposite his friend - the only one he had - and helped himself to some more rum. He wasn't sure when he had started drinking so much... He was never drunk when he had been with Denarius, nor when he had been running. But almost as soon as he had arrived in Kirkwall he had picked up the bottle, and had barely set it down since.

"I've heard something… A similar expression. I know it, but I can't…" he petered out, exasperated. Isabella looked at her friend over the top of her glass, waiting to see if he would continue. After a moment she asked him gently, "Why do you bother trying to remember anything? I mean, it's not like they're going to be good memories, are they?"

Fenris frowned, unsure how to answer. It struck him then that, of course, she was right. The shadows that had been cast over him since he had begun to remember his life before the lyrium had enveloped his burgeoning happiness, pulling him backwards, into the dark. _So why do I pursue them? _He had no answer for himself, no answer for Isabella.

"It is hard to explain. Before, before that night-"

"Before Hawke, you can say it, sweet. I know you had your reasons for what you did, but.. Even _I_ don't understand why you're doing this to yourself. All this _angst_. Just let it go, it's done. And if you're lucky you might still get him back before Anders gets him killed."

Fenris looked up, shocked. Isabella rarely involved herself in the dramas that were quickly devouring their rag-tag group, preferring to treat the lives of her comrades as some kind of personal theatre, rather than real life. She was, by her own admission, selfish and disloyal, and as such she wasn't given to personal attachments, nor to strong allegiances. It was one of the things he liked about her – she never asked anything of him beyond his company and access to his wine cellar. But she was asking him now, and he realised he wanted to try and make someone else understand. He needed someone else to understand – because otherwise, if no one could reassure him, perhaps he _had_ made the biggest mistake of his life.

"Before that night, I would have.. I don't know.. sensations? I'd smell something – like the leaves turning, or the smell of the ocean after a storm – and suddenly this _feeling_ would just overwhelm me. It was difficult, to be sure, but not impossible to live with. I even wondered if Hadriana – but no, never mind. It was a strange life, but it was manageable. I thought I knew myself, as I am now.

"But that night.. I don't know if was killing Hadriana, or perhaps it _was_ Hawke. I dreamt, and I remembered... I could see everything clearly, I _understood_ myself. I'm certain of it. But then, it just disappeared again. It's like for years I was drowning, and then suddenly I was pulled out of the water.. I could breathe, I could see, hear… but then I was shoved back below the surface again. And here I remain."

Isabella hugged her glass, sipping at the rum. "That doesn't really explain anything, pet. You know that, right?"

"What should I be explaining, then?" Fenris cried out, surprising himself with the emotion that was threaded through his voice. For a moment the room filled with silence as the friends thought how to navigate around the tension that had descended between. After a moment Isabella spoke, being careful to speak slowly and gently. "I think you should ask yourself why you want to remember? If you lost it all again, after that night, then why does it matter? You said you lived your whole life like that, so why did you walk out on Hawke?"

"Why do you care so much about me and Hawke anyway? Jealous?" Fenris knew it was a petty thing to say, but the conversation had taken him in a direction that made him feel nervous, and he was desperate to try and steer it back to familiar waters – even if his friend was forced to pay the price. It was one thing to talk about his memories… with Isabella, who never judged and never asked for anything, he felt comfortable – to an extent. But the way she kept bringing the conversation back to Hawke made him feel guilty and sad, and he hadn't learnt how to cope with such feelings.

Isabella set her glass down on the low table that sat between them. She began to pull her boots on, not looking up until she had pulled the laces tight on each boot. It took her about five minutes to get each boot securely tied, and Fenris sulkily drank his drink, refusing to apologise. Eventually she was ready. Standing, she began to pick up her things, her small purse of coins, her knives.

Fenris expected her to walk out, and was gazing moodily into the fire, determined to ignore her. But instead she came and knelt by his chair, and he jumped when he felt her hands rest on his lap, gently drawing his attention away from the fire and onto her face. When he looked at her he felt ashamed. There was no anger in her expression, only tiredness. Again the ghost of a memory surfaced, and then sunk back down into the depths of his subconscious. Something in her expression, the weariness and concern that were shown in her knotted brow had reminded him of another woman… someone who had cared about him… but it was gone, and he was here, now, with Isabella. His only friend, and he had set out to drive her away because she had said something he hadn't like. He cursed himself, and placed his own hands over the pirates, causing a small smile to dart across her face, easing the sudden tension between them.

"Listen to me, Fenris," Isabella said softly, "because I care about you, and I feel sorry for you. No, don't interrupt. Just listen. You're chasing ghosts, and no good will come of it. There's nothing you can gain from any of this. I didn't say anything before, even when you told me you were trying to contact your sister, but I'm saying it now. Don't do it. Whatever life you had, whoever you were, that person's dead. And perhaps they deserve to be. I don't know anything about the Imperium, or at least no more than most, but I do know that anyone who would be chosen to have lyrium burned into their whole body was probably not a very nice person. I'm sorry, pet, but there's the truth of it. Be who you are now.

"Now, I'm going to say something about Hawke, and you are not going to frown, or glow, or try to insult me. Right?" Fenris nodded, not daring to meet her eyes. "Good. Normally I wouldn't give a shit what you did, but ever since you dumped him he's been getting worse. He's a lot of things, and most of them good, but he's also young, arrogant and immensely powerful. You hurt his feelings, hell I think you may have been the first person ever to even make him realise he has feelings, and since then he's not only been more reckless – fighting the Arishock, for Maker's sake – but he's also been getting more involved in Anders' Mage Underground. He's the Champion of Kirkwall, which has given him some safety, but also exposed him to Meredith and the Templars. How long to do you think he'll be able to live in both worlds? All it'll take is one mistake, and right now he's doing everything he can to impress you – or kill himself, either one. If you truly don't care about him, then I think you should leave. If you do care, then you need to get over yourself and tell him.

"I've been sailing for most of my life, Fenris, and I know a fell wind when I smell one. Something bad's coming, and I reckon Hawke's gonna be right bang in the centre of it. When it happens, whatever it is, you'll need to choose. And if you don't chose Hawke… well, all I'm saying is, maybe it would be better if you just left, now."

Fenris didn't hear Isabella leave. He sat for hours, long after the fire had burnt out, thinking about the past and the future. What he hadn't told Isabella, what he hadn't even really admitted to himself, was the truth of what he _could_ remember. That night, with Hawke, had been one of the most intense experiences of his life, and when he had woken at first light he had rolled over and looked the mage, watching him sleep.

He had wanted nothing more than to stay with him, to close his eyes and drift back to sleep. But how could he, knowing what he did about himself? How could he possibly stay with anyone, let alone someone he had grown to love with such passion and devotion?

He had murdered his best friend, the man his sister loved.

He couldn't remember the details, but he knew the truth of it. He closed his eyes, and could hear snatches of conversation.. he had told her she couldn't see the man she loved... she had run, run into slavery, he had forced her to run away… and he had chased her, and he had killed the man.. he had killed the man…

Fenris' thoughts cut into his soul, sharp and relentless they tore at his fragile identity, and he had no way to repair himself. His life with Denarius had done nothing to prepare him for self-doubt, for guilt and sorrow. Denarius had always told him that he was special. Denarius had always given him boundaries, and had shaped his life for him. When he had run, it hadn't been because his life was hard, or particularly unhappy. He was excluded from the other slaves, that was true, but he had had Denarius. He hadn't needed anyone else. Hadriana had tormented him, but even that hadn't been enough to make him want to run.

It had been the child. Denarius had been hosting a dinner, and had wanted to show-off. He'd looked around the room, and seen the boy, standing in the corner of the room. The child had been there simply to help guests in and out of their chairs, but for whatever reason Denarius had called him to the table, and calmly taken a knife to his throat to charge some spell – Fenris couldn't even remember now what it had been. But something then, at the moment, had shaken him, and it wasn't long after that he had seen his opportunity and had run.

And now here he was, confused and alone. He couldn't go back, not now. He _wouldn't_ go back – he may not have recovered himself, and perhaps he would always need to be directed and led (and the thought of giving up and letting himself be pulled along again was so terrifying and so welcoming Fenris shied away from it); but could he go forward, knowing what he knew about himself? He had always hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the person he had been before the lyrium was welded onto his body had been a good person, had been worthy and moral and just – a person who might tip the scales, who might offer some redress for all the things he had done for Denarius, and then everything he had done to escape him.

Isabella had told him he should leave. _Perhaps that is what I should do._ But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn't leave. He scorned his cowardice – _always the catamite of a mage._ But then, Hawke was different.. He was dishonest, but he was moral. He stole from anyone, even dead bodies, but he also gave so much to people that no one else even saw. He could joke and laugh in the gravest of situations, but also he could be sincere, and open, and kind. Fenris thought back to the night Hawke's mother had died, and he had visited him. He hadn't known what to expect – perhaps anger, or even to find the man drunk. But Hawke had been quiet, subdued and vulnerable. Fenris had wanted nothing more at that moment than to reach out and wrap his arms around the mage, to let him cry and scream and to sleep.

And then his thoughts swung back again. Hawke was trying to free the mages. Whatever Isabella might think of his motives, that was still what he was doing. Fenris knew he couldn't allow it. If Thedas were to fall under the power of the mages again, if Tevinter were to rise…

_None of them understand_. And it was true. They all saw the mages here as victims, as prisoners and chattel for the Templars. Fenris sunk lower in his chair, his brands glowing as his emotions ran ragged. The Templars did horrendous things, he knew it. But none of them _knew_. He remembered Hawke challenging him about his comment about Hadriana, how she had been lying. Of course he had been right, Fenris had told him Magisters never lie. But he didn't understand why – a lie could be found out so easily, it was the work of even the most remedial magister to dip into the mind of another and see the truth. So everyone in Tevinter had learnt to manipulate the truth, to taint it and corrupt it just enough that, should their memories be raided, nothing would betray them. And that was just the thin edge of the wedge, Fenris knew. These people – Maker, Hawke – had so much power, power that no one else could match, not if the mage were well trained and unafraid. It was fear that kept them controlled, and, Fenris admitted, the methods used to engender that fear could at times be reprehensible – but what was the alternative?

_Could you let them take him? Would you stand by and watch them beat him, rape him? Would you hold him down while they made him Traquil?_

_If you don't stop him…or help him?.. _

Fenris wasn't a fool. He knew he was in love, and he knew Hawke loved him back. He hadn't, however, really considered the idea that Hawke's recent behaviour was a reaction towards their relationship. But now he thought of it, he could see the sense of what Isabella had said. If Hawke wanted to hurt him, he couldn't have chosen a better way than joining up with Anders' madness.

_If I spoke to him, told him I'm sorry, perhaps we could begin again, perhaps we could be happy. He could help me remember, or help me to live with forgetting… We could move away from Kirkwall, away from the Templars and the politics and the dirt…_

_But I killed my best friend…I'm dangerous, disloyal… what if I hurt him?.. Can I let him continue in his madness?.. Must I kill him too?.. What if I find my sister?... What if Denarius finds me and orders me to kill him?..._

Fenris buried his face in his hands, and began to cry.

* * *

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	34. Chapter 34

**9.21 Dragon**

**Felcious Square, Minrathous**

"The parade will begin soon," Tiberius informed him. They were standing in a throng of people, waiting for the Archon to pass through the city. It was an annual event, Leto had learnt, and most of the city had turned up to line the streets. The air was filled with the smells of street food, the cries of hawkers and the excited yells of the citizens as they drank and feasted. The spectacle was overwhelming, and Leto was grateful that the healer was with him, to help him make sense of everything he was seeing, and to answer his questions.

"And all the Magisters will be here also?"

Tiberius smiled indulgently, having already been asked this question a number of times by the elf. "Yes, the Magisters and the apprentices. They will follow the Archon, and then the Senate and finally the soldiers. Why are you so interested in the Magisters?" he asked casually, knowing the answer.

"I'm hopeful that I will finally see my master," Leto lied.

Leto had arrived in Minrathous at the beginning of autumn and was put straight into training at the Senate. Here he was surprised to find a number of other elves, along with humans and even a few dwarves. Not all were slaves, but everyone was indentured. Not given to conversation, Leto had fallen back into his old role as observer, and what he saw both revolted and amazed him. He wasn't sure exactly what he had expected, but it wasn't what he found. Never interested in his own history, Leto now found himself being educated in the history of the humans, and every day he was forced to endure lectures and seminars on his new role as a guard of the Imperium. If anyone guessed he hadn't been raised in slavery, nothing was ever said.

He trained long and hard, and fell into a deep and exhausted sleep at the end of each day. Sometimes, like today, Tiberius would come and meet him, and take him out into the main city. It struck him as odd, but he didn't question it. He had learnt to spend time with the healer, and even found himself looking forward to his visits and their excursions. In fact, it was Tiberius who saved him from the humiliations that the other slaves and soldiers were often subjected to.

During his first week there had been an incident involving one of the other students. They had been in class, learning what was expected of them as a bodyguard to a Magister, and one of the other students had misrecited the laws of the Imperium and been beaten. Leto had spoken out, and as a punishment had been forced to stand on a pedestal for the next twelve hours, refused water or food and whipped indiscriminately by any passing tutors. Tiberius had found him there, and had immediately found the school master. Leto had no idea what had passed between the two humans, but he had soon been allowed down, fed and put to bed. He had not been punished again.

The city itself was older – older than Orlais – and the history of humanity was celebrated everywhere. It seems to him that every street and square included statues of the great and the worthy, and every building was covered in murals and frescos that told the story of domination of Thedas. The Minrathous Leto saw was not the same one his mother or his sister experienced. Where Aryion had seen sculleries and cellars, bedrooms and chimneys, and Variania viewed the world through the eyes of a spoilt child, denied the freedom and importance she felt she was entitled to, Leto was guided and accompanied by Tiberius, who spoke to him as an equal, and asked his opinion and was interested in Leto's comparisons between the city and the other places he had visited in his youth.

Despite himself, Leto found he liked the city. He was carefully, and unknowingly, shielded by Tiberius from the worst excesses of cruelty or decadence, and he found himself wondering what it was that Cassandra had been so afraid of. He remembered the way he had felt as a child when he had been taken away from the Imperium, and found he was finally able to account for what had seemed at the time frightening and unusual. Of course he had wanted to be here – this place, this city, was thriving and vibrant. He wasn't treated as unusual or as second class. His ability was respected, and he was finally able to feel as if he had a place in the world. None of his teachers censured his extraordinary ability with a blade, and in Tiberius he had found a friend to help him and guide him. He felt sometimes, guiltily and disloyally, but nevertheless he felt it, that if his father had been more like Tiberius he might have had a happier childhood, he might have understood himself and his ability better, rather than feeling like a freak, like an outcast.

This didn't mean however he forgot his secret purpose. He watched and listened, and had discovered where Varania and Aryion were being kept, and je knew that today, with everyone at the parade, they would be unguarded. Each night he carefully catalogued the streets he had visited, building a mental map of the city; he could find the house of Egidius, and with the madness he would be leaving behind him he felt confident he could smuggle them out of the city. His only regret was that today he would betray Tiberius, and that when the moment came he would have to act quickly and abandon the healer. He did not know, of course, that Tiberius had a different plan.

_Today is the day_, Leto thought. He was neither excited nor nervous. He was focused. His hatred of Callum had been nurtured for over a year, and was now as strong and clear as diamond. He no longer suffered bouts of crippling anger, rather when he thought of the mage his mind settled into a clear and defining purpose. He only felt sorry for Tiberius, who would surely be punished as a result of bringing him to the city.

"Here comes the Archon," Tiberius shouted over the roar of the mob. Leto pushed forward, elbowing his way the edge of the crowd, pulling Tiberius behind him. The mage laughed, and Leto muttered that he was excited to see the head of his new home. Tiberius laughed again.

o0o

Callum marched along with the other apprentices, lost in thought. He had been both delighted and suspicious when Hadriana had permitted him to participate in the parade. Last year she had outright refused his pleas to join her, saying that he was still no more than a hedge mage and as such would be an embarrassment to her name and the House of Egidius. When the parade had rolled around again, he hadn't even asked to join her. Things between them had become even more strained over the summer, and Callum was at a loss to understand why. Hadriana had to all intents and purposes discontinued their lessons together, meeting him for a couple of hours a week to sullenly pass over a reading list, and to watch him demonstrate any new spells he had been learnt in the meantime. She quizzed him over legislature and custom, and scorned him half-heartedly when he made mistakes.

Callum was amazed to find he missed her spite and hatred. _At least it meant she was interested in me_, he found himself thinking and he marched along with his contemporaries, so lost to his own misery he barely noticed the cheers of the crowds.

No, it was not him that interested the bitch, it was Varania. Callum had no idea what to think. He had been so terrified when Hadriana had sequestered his slave, worried for her safety and for his. But Varania had returned from their first meeting unharmed, and had since spent most of her days locked away in their room, translating texts and writing essays for the other woman. Hadriana had even taken Varania out of the house, to some secret meeting that the elf had refused to explain. Callum had asked Varania what the nature of her work was, but he couldn't believe her when she answered that Hadriana was interested in Elvhen lore. He had since punished Varania by withdrawing his affection and protection, but, maddeningly, Hadriana had stepped in and Varania was still spared the dismal duties of any normal slave. It didn't matter anyway. Callum couldn't maintain his distance from Varania, and found himself weakening and begging _her_ for her time, for_ her_ touch. His stomach twisted in a knot as he considered the humiliation of his position, and worse still, the way it turned him on to be subjugated by her.

Whatever was happening between the two women, it had upset the balance of his relationship with Varania. She now held all the power, and they both knew it. He was advancing faster and further now that she was in a dialogue with Hadriana, but he was unable to revel in his sudden ascent.

Callum trudged along, not paying attention to his surroundings. The cries and cheers and the population dulled in to a background roar, unable to penetrate his relentless self-pity.

The parade moved further through the city.

o0o

Hadriana smiled, and even waved to the citizens that lined the route. She knew what she had to do, and was ready. She spotted Denarius and the elf, and slowed down, allowing the other apprentices to overtake her. Callum didn't notice when she slipped in behind him.

o0o

Tiberius leaned over to Leto, and gently touched his shoulder, pulling his attention away from the parade. "I'm going to get a glass of wine. I'm too old to be pressed in amongst all these people. Will you be ok on your own?"

He watched the elf as he tried to hide the relief that washed over his face when he realised that Tiberius would be leaving him.

o0o

Egidius wasn't walking the route. His health had deteriorated disastrously over the summer, and he was almost completely bed bound now. However, he had refused to miss the parade completely, and instead had insisted on being carried in a sedan chair. As a result he was enjoying a raised vantage point, and able to see much further than some of the other Magisters. If he had been part of the march he might not have seen Denarius standing in the crowd. He stared at the other Magister, bewildered and confused. He realised he hadn't seen the man at the reception, but it had never occurred to him that the Magister would not be present at all. Denarius' House was one the most powerful in the city, and the man had responsibilities.

Something was wrong. Egidius turned in his seat, looking for Hadriana. She should have been just behind him, but when he found her she had been swept back, and was walking far behind with the newly appointed apprentices. She was even behind Callum. Egidius frowned. Panic began to prickle at his skin, causing his to feel sick. _She shouldn't be there. Denarius shouldn't be in the crowd. _Egidius couldn't explain why, but he sensed there was some connection, and he began to feel afraid. He realised suddenly that he was exposed, sat so high and so frail. He reached into the Fade, and prayed that with all the commotion no one would notice the tell-tale taste of tin, or the air pull thin.

He could hear the crowd calling out, cheering and shouting, beginning for blessings, for money, for favour. The noise was overwhelming, and it was hard for him to concentrate. He needed to calm down, or he wouldn't be able to access his manna. There were no slaves, no one to bleed. He _was_ exposed. _Too old, too much pride… I should have stayed at home._ Denarius had disappeared. He couldn't find him, the crowds were too thick, and he hadn't been dressed in his Magisterial robes. He looked again for Hadriana, but now he couldn't find her either. Callum was still there, but he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, he was watching his feet as he marched along, oblivious to the danger Egidius was certain now threatened.

And then Egidius heard it. Somewhere just ahead, something was happening. A slave was pushing through the guards that lined the route. Egidius watched in mounting horror as the slave killed the security with barely a break in his stride. The other people in crowd began to scream, but behind them, around them, people still cheered. There were too many people, too much noise. No one knew what was happening, and the slave was pushing through the parade, heading towards his apprentice. Egidius fought to calm his breathing, and concentrated on building his connection to the Fade.

o0o

Leto wasn't aware of the screams behind him. He pushed forward, knowing that if he stopped he would be caught and killed. The only chance he had was surprise and the blessed cover of the crowd and the parade. No one knew what to do with the dead guards, no one was watching him - yet, no one was fast enough. The line of guards had rushed to where their comrades had fallen, and were slow to organise themselves. They hadn't expected any trouble, and the chain of command was confused.

He pulled the stolen dagger out of his waistband, and moved through the Magisters to the apprentices, the blade held tightly at his side.

o0o

Hadriana charged her manna, and felt the power crackle through her body, making the soft hairs on her arms stand on end. _Not too much_, she reminded herself, _don't kill him_. She watched Leto approach Callum, and saw the glint of steel in his hand. She didn't notice Egidius suddenly stand in his chair.

o0o

Callum felt the force of the spell break in front of him, and saw Leto fall. The next thing he knew Hadriana had him, and was pulling him away. She was screaming, but he couldn't understand what she was saying. All he could see was the body of the elf on the ground, and the guards closing in around him. His ears were ringing, and he allowed Hadriana to manhandle him away, dragging him further into the parade.

o0o

It had happened so fast. The crowd had screamed and tried to run, causing people to be trampled and suffocated. It was madness, and soon the paving stones were slick with blood. The slave had launched himself at the apprentice, knife drawn and screaming in anger. The older Magister's spell caught him before his reached the apprentice, bringing him to the ground in a shower of electricity, felling him instantly. The guards had swarmed around the slave, beating his already unconscious body, until Magister Denarius called them off, and demanded the slave be taken back to his own house. No one knew why the slave had attacked the apprentice, but everyone agreed later that Magister Egidius had saved the young man's life, though the force of the spell caused his old heart to give out. It was generally felt that the old man deserved a statue, and donations poured into the Senate for him to be awarded with a state funeral.

The Senate convened the next day to discuss the incident. Denarius gave testimony, taking responsibility for his slave's actions. He publically apologised to Hadriana, now most senior member of the House Egidius, but defended his slave, explaining that the House Egidius had for years been trying to assassinate him, even employing Crows to carry out the deed. Denarius maintained that his slave had only been trying to protect him. Hadriana, dressed in mourning clothes, acknowledged the attempts, but refused to accept the Magister's apology. Her master had died and the slave hadn't even targeted the right person – it was all very queer, and everyone agreed an apology was not enough.

"We cannot permit this kind of disobedience," the Archon stated, as the Senate clamoured around them.

No one knew what to do. House Denarius was old and powerful, but so was House Egidius. It was unacceptable, but there was no precedent for slaves attacking Magisters' apprentices openly in the streets, even in misplaced loyalty to their master.

Denarius stood in the floor, and waited for the noise to die down. "Your grace, I agree that the behaviour of my slave is wholly unacceptable." The Archon nodded. "However," Denarius continued, "I will not have the elf executed for protecting my interests. If we cannot trust our bodyguards to risk their lives for us, for our individual safety, and the safety of the state, how can we ever be truly secure?"

The room erupted.

Denarius raised his hands, and the noises ebbed again. He continued, speaking clearly and politely, using all his charm and influence. "There must be a solution that House Egidius will agree to?"

All eyes turned to Hadriana, beautiful in her misery. She stood slowly and walked to the centre of the auditorium, and a hush descended. She bowed to the Archon, and to Denarius.

"My lords, on behalf of my late master, and my House, I thank-you. I understand Magister Denarius' wish to keep such a.. dedicated slave," the room tittered at the weak joke, "however, something must be done. If it is not too impertinent, I have a suggestion?"

The Archon waved his hand, signalling her to continue.

"Perhaps we could look to our history to settle this matter?"

Denarius frowned, "What history are you referring to, child?"

"To the Coliseum, my lord."

The Senate exploded again, unable to believe what they had heard. The Coliseum hadn't been used to settle debts of honour in more than an Age. The Archon called for silence, and leant forward in his chair. "You understand what you are proposing, girl?"

Hadriana nodded. "I do my lord. If the champion of my House should fall, the matter will be settled in favour of my worthy lord, Acrisius Aemilius Tiberius Denarius of the House Denarius. I understand the stakes. But I trust in the Maker's justice."

The Archon looked to Denarius, who nodded. The matter was thus settled, and the date of the battle was set for the first day of the new-year, 9.22 Dragon.

Hadriana caught Denarius' eye, and smiled.


	35. Chapter 35

**9.21 Dragon**

**The Hive, the Senate, Minrathous**

The Senate was, like all of Minrathous, old and worn. Exactly how old the buildings were was a matter of heated and dull debate amongst the Imperium's historians. All agreed that the _institution _was ancient, having been founded almost immediately upon the first humans' arrival in the land now named Thedas, but the genesis of the actual buildings was harder to place.

This was due in equal measure the nature of the buildings themselves, and to the nature of historians. It has often been said that history is written by the winner. While this is undoubtedly true, the vital and defining caveat is, sadly, much less renowned; that is, that the overall winner in question is in fact the winning _historian_, not, as might be suspected, the battle scarred chief or general. The furious and dry exchanges of volumes, books and articles that ultimately decide the victor need not be too closely examined. In the capital there were but two juggernauts worthy of consideration: Magister Octavio Aenacchi Sobel Apollo and the less grand, but infinitely more popular, Nevina Alessia.

The Senate was made up of a series of three concentric buildings, the outer circle being the most recently built. According to Apollo, the outer building was erected after the South's Exalted March on the North during the Black Age, and was designed to show the world the might of the Imperium, even after a long and gruesome siege that had cost the lives of hundreds of Tevinters and their slaves. Alessia, more romantic and blood thirsty (and with a better grasp of how to sell books than her honourable opponent) argued that the city's inhabitants had, during the last few brutal weeks of the war, given in to their hunger and desperation and turned to cannibalism, killing and eating their slaves by the dozen.

Whether there was any truth in this was impossible to say, but the fact that the large and ornate building was constructed casted doubt on the tale. After all, it was almost certainly not the hands of Imperial citizens that laid the marble stones that the lavish building was made of. Great pillars, slender and pale as angels' fingers, reach thirty feet high, supporting cornices and frescos designed with reliefs of the many achievements of the Imperium.

Again with the canny eye of the true historian, Alessia had included a lengthy and spurious tale about the carvings of the reliefs. Surprisingly, magic is rarely used in the creation of art, being seen more as a tool or weapon that a medium of expression or creation. However, according to the sensationalist scholar, one of the reliefs was indeed carved using fire. The artist - perhaps wisely - has never been named. Why exactly he, or, indeed, she, would have decided to use their Ability for such a task is not commented on, and even Alessia's few academic supporters seem at a lost to explain the inclusion of the story in her history of the Senate. However, amongst her core readership the image of a Magister who would use their Ability to create something beautiful had proven to be both extremely popular and enduring, as with all fairy tales.

The middle buildings were of less interest to either author, being built by consent rather than in defiance or blood, and housing for the most part the administrative offices of the Senate. Apollo gives over a few pages to their description (built in the characteristically blocky style of the Glory Age, with some good examples of the masonry of the time). Alessia writes barely a paragraph, focusing only on the wishing well located in the courtyard dividing the centre and inner buildings. Apparently a Magister, having fallen in love with a poor man's daughter and unable to bear the shame, had killed the maiden in fit of guilt and lust by freezing the blood solid in her veins. Immediately distraught, he had taken her body and thrown it and himself down the well. Alessia recounts this tale as explanation for the unusual pinkish quality of the water. Apollo, with atypical brevity, suggests a rusted iron pipe somewhere inaccessible to the slaves.

Finally there was the oldest, central structure, named by Alessia The Hive. Taking however the least dramatic and infinitely more reliable of both scholars as a guide, Magister Apollo argued convincingly in his seminal work, _Politeia_, that The Hive had begun life as a Hall of Faces. It was not difficult to see the basis of his thesis. The Hive was a twisting labyrinth of long, low hallways and small chambers, each lit by rich, white candles that always burnt clean. No sunlight ever crept into The Hive, and it was always cool and dry, even during the hottest months of the burning Imperium summers. Most of the space was given over to the state's vast fortune in arts and antiquities, as the dry, chill air preserved the delicate objects. It was also where the darkest dungeons were kept – not the city goals, reserved for petty murderers and rapists, escaped slaves and turncoats, but rather for those Magisters that sought to overthrown the Archon or, occasionally, the Divine. It was rare these days that any such coup was attempted, but hard lessons are well learnt and the inner sanctum of the Senate was the sole place in the whole of the Tevinter Imperium in which magic could not be practiced.

In the South the Chantry controls mages and magic. Or specifically, it controls the mages _with_ magic, an interesting double standard that, perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not, often goes uncommented on. The Templars, the soldiers of the White Divine, imbibe treated lyrium and foster a synthetic connection to the Fade which allows them some measure of the magic that flows naturally in the blood of those born with Ability. These Templars lead short and crippled lives, soon becoming desperately addicted to the syrupy blue concoction which, ultimately, ravages their minds and bodies. But for as long as they can stand, the church supplies their addiction, satisfying their cravings in return for the power it gives her soldiers to combat magic in any of its forms, including blood magic.

In the South they call it 'The Smite', a suitably deific and celestial name for something which serves only to separate the living from the original land of the Maker. The Smite was, irreligious irony aside, well named. A mage's power comes from an above average connection to the Fade, and their prowess is defined by their Ability – that is, the ability they have to shape and wield that connection into something manifest and tangible in the waking world. The Smite severs that connection, cutting off the Fade. For most full grown mages and apostates, those that have lived their entire lives with the song of the Fade always on the cusp of hearing, the sudden sensory deprivation is staggering, causing all but the strongest, or those who have not learnt how to rely on something other than their magic, to fall to their knees in agony, ready for the Templars to sweep them up and carry off to the nearest Circle Tower. The actual epistemology of the, for want of a better word, spell was unknown, lost to history, though as with all things in Thedas it was likely elven in origin. The circles in the South don't care to look too closely at what it is they are doing as long as it continues to serve their purpose, and in North it is in all places but The Hive expressly forbidden.

When Denarius had first brought Hadriana into The Hive she had screamed, thrown up and then fainted. But she had been coming here for weeks, and was able now to stand the oppressive silence of normalcy better than most, though less well than her idol, who had learnt many decades ago the dangers of relying solely on magic and as a result had felt very little distress upon first entering The Hive, and now felt none at all. _She_ still paled when she entered, and had to sip slowly from a terracotta flask of mint infused tea in order to avoid vomiting, but she was now at least able to move unaided. An improvement Denarius was inordinately grateful for.

Hadriana hated it here, but she understood the sense in using The Hive as a meeting place. The whole building was barren of life. Once a tomb to the living, it was now a tomb to the culture of the Imperium, and those cultures that it had overthrown or colonised. The endless storerooms housed more treasures than it was possible to catalogue, and without a curator no one really knew what could be found in the chilly darkness. Those with Ability never ventured into the place, and even those without – the clerks and clerics and porters – stayed clear, perhaps picking up on the unease of the Magisters, perhaps fearing the ghosts of those prisoners that had died here, deep in the cellars below ground level, their magic torn from them, left to die of starvation or of the silence of the Fade. Only a handful of specially selected slaves really knew the long and winding corridors and antechambers, a vast maze that they scurries through gratefully, unguarded and unaccosted.

Hadriana leant back against the cold stone, trying to stop the sensation that the world was spinning around her. The dim light from the endlessly burning candles flickered across her eyelids in orange and amber spots, and she fought to concentrate on what Denarius was saying. They were in a storeroom, and Hadriana couldn't decide what was worse – the sickness or the giant, dead stone golem that was chained to the floor in the centre of the small space. She opted to keep her eyes closed, and focused on her breathing. _In, out, in out.. one, two, three, four, five…_ she repeated again and again, and after a few moments she found she could make out what Denarius was saying above the incessant silence that flooded her mind.

"…to plan?"

Hadriana took a sip of her tea, and let the sweet, minty warmth fill her mouth and settle her stomach and nerves. "It is unfortunate that Egidius got in the way. I confess, lord, I cannot see how to approach the elf now. Callum will surely tell her it was her brother who attacked him."

Denarius frowned. Over the weeks of the summer he had grown to see the use in Hadriana, and even enjoy her company. She was extremely focused, and absolutely ruthless – qualities he admired in her, and intended to nurture when she joined his House. But there was no escaping the fact that she was, like most, only able to see the narrow view of what lay in front of her, and was blind to the vast and open peripheries of thought. Denarius had long ago given up trying to understand how the rest of the world could stand it, only seeing what was directly ahead of them, blinkered and blinded to what was so obvious to him. He had hoped that Leto might have been different, but even he had no grasp of the wider picture. But Denarius was pragmatic, and although it was again disappointing to realise he was alone his ability to see the whole of something, both Leto and Hadriana amused and delighted him, and he could forgive them their faults. He had waited nearly fifty decades to be where he was, and if he had to painstakingly explain the obvious then so be it.

"Callum is still in the infirmary?" Hadriana didn't reply. She knew that Denarius wasn't really asking her. "So you must go to him, not to the girl. Tell him that he will be given the opportunity to avenge himself and his Master."

"He won't do it; he's was terrified after the attack. It was disgusting. He soiled himself."

"He will. You just need to offer the right incentive. Vengeance will appease the Senate. But for him? He is proud, ambitious… Offer him the House. Explain to him that you and I shall marry. Yes. Explain that you and I had planned to marry, but now we are unable, due to the _froideur_ caused by the attack. Our Houses need to be seen to settle the matter properly, otherwise any marriage between us will not be favoured by the Archon. Let him be your champion, and offer him the title of Egidius in return. It is yours to give, now. He will accept."

Hadriana's heart fluttered in her chest, and she risked opening her eyes to look at the man she loved. Hope danced across her face as she spoke, "Marry, my lord?"

"Yes, yes, of course. It will be more believable than your simply wanting to be my apprentice. You have inherited House Egidius and are only a few years from your own cap, why on earth would you give it up to be apprenticed again? Yes, marriage is the only plausible thing."

She closed her eyes again, and swallowed against the stinging tightness that enveloped her throat. "Yes, of course," she said through tight lips. "What about the elf?" she asked after a moment to collect herself. "She has power over him, and she knows nothing about her brother's involvement in this. How could she be convinced to let her lover walk to his death, without even the promise of her brother being returned to her?"

"She wouldn't want Leto back," Denarius said slowly, tapping his fingers against his lips as he thought. "She wants the same things as the boy. Power, wealth… freedom. No, she won't be difficult to convince, as long as the fact that Leto is involved is kept from her. And there we are in luck. The boy will see no incentive in explaining the fact that Leto is here, lest he is forced to explain why it is _only _Leto and not the entire clan."

"Very well, my lord. I will speak to him after the Senate hearing."

"Good, good. And I will speak to Leto, that will be more difficult, but not impossible."

They said their goodbyes, and Denarius left Hadriana. He would send a slave back for her, not wanting to risk being seen exiting The Hive with her. Hadriana sank to the floor and tried to settle herself. The flask was still warm in her hands, and she tried to concentrate on the sensation. After a moment her eyes drifted to the golem. At any other time she might have felt privileged to have seen it. Golems were extremely rare, even broken and dead like the one in front of her.

_How wonderful to feel nothing_, Hadriana mused. She stood gently, and padded across the clean floor to the stone giant. It almost looked like a man, but where a human face would have been soft and curved this one was hard and angular, though the stone was well carved and each plane was smooth and clean. Small crystals had been imbedded into the shoulders and across the chest, and they caught the light from the candles, causing tiny rainbows to dance and waver across the angled surface of the golem, and against her hands as she reach up to touch it.

Hadriana was confused. In many ways she was getting what she had always wanted it, and so she couldn't understand why she felt so dissatisfied. A little over a year ago she had travelled to the market square, giddy with excitement and ready to meet her apprentice. Egidius had been alive and ready to help her achieve her dreams. Denarius had stood aloof and magnificent, an object of desire and fear. And now? She didn't know. But it was too late to back away. She was committed to her present course, and she would see it through.

Hadriana rested her face against the golem's chest, her cheek pressed against one of the flat surfaces of stone. She was tired. The House had been in uproar when she had returned from the infirmary, and she had spent most of the night dealing with the aftermath of Egidius' death, and now she was about to face the entire Senate and the Archon. _All for Denarius, a man who flushes every time he says the name of the elf._ Hadriana hadn't noticed it at first, and doubted that anyone else ever would. But she had spent her life studying the man, longing for him and dreaming of him, and she saw it.

Maker, how she wished she was the one for him. It was so _unfair_. For a moment she wished she had killed the elf, _Leto_, when she had found him in the quarries. But then, she knew, she would have nothing. Wasn't it better to have a taste of the apple, even if you couldn't eat the whole thing?

* * *

><p>Wow! Very excitingly we now have ten reviews! Double figures :-D<p>

I don't comment very often (I find it distracting when I'm reading stories if there are author's notes every chapter) but maybe I should? So I just want to say thanks to everyone who is reading this and those who have reviewed; this is the first story I've ever written and it's really great to get feedback. I'm not sure how many of you are out there, but I'm delighted you've stuck with it and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. xxx


	36. Chapter 36

**9.21 Dragon**

**The Legion Infirmary, Barracks 24, Minrathous**

Callum focused on the sound of the boy dying. It wasn't what he had expected a human death to sound like, but as he lay and watched the life leave the conscript in the bed next to his he accepted that most things he had imagined were different in real life.

The soldier must have been younger than Callum, but his face was etched with fine lines made visible due to the film of dirt and sweat that covered his skin. Callum watched as blood bubbled up between his lips, and his chest rose and fell painfully slowly, as if under a hundredweight, making it impossible to breathe. The moment the boy died was marked not with a scream but with a wet, sucking sound as the blood that was filling his lungs reached its inevitable conclusion. Callum saw his eyes glaze over as he changed from a living, breathing human being to a slowly cooling cadaver.

"Disgusting," Hadriana shuddered.

Callum turned his attention back to his visitor. He wasn't sure how to reply, so he said something that sounded vaguely agreeable, and turned his head back to the boy. Hadriana was talking to him about the events of her last twenty-four hours; detailing the troubles she had had with the slaves, who all wanted to attend the funeral procession of their late master, with the accountants, with the coroners, with the signatories. It seemed that the living found the business of death a lot more difficult to manage than the dying. The boy had done it so _simply_.

"…At least the laudation should go smoothly enough, thank the Maker. The body is in good condition, a little lead, a little alkanet and he should be presentable enough…"

Callum tried to make the right noises as Hadriana went on about the funeral. He wondered when the boy would be taken away. It was hot, and the body would begin to smell. Callum had heard once that corpses soiled themselves after death. He began to ponder what he would find if he were to get up and lift the thin muslin sheet that was draped over the body's midriff and legs.

Callum had killed before, but he had never really paid attention to death. Of course, his first murder had been magnificent, but he had never intended it and so reasoned the blood was not on his hands, but on the hands of the demon who had twisted his wishes. No, best not to dwell on that; he did what he did for love – when something is done for love it can never be truly ignoble. When Hadriana had first begun to teach him blood magic they had started on animals, pigs and goats and such. They had screamed, Callum remembered. Screamed and shat and pissed every-where, and it had been both terrifying and relieving to slide the knife across their throats. When he had moved on to the slaves he had dreaded it. But they had just stood there quietly and calmly as he had cut them. In general he never set out to kill them, as it was annoying to have to replace a slave and, more truthfully, the spells Hadriana taught him didn't require that much blood. But he had killed a few. Not many, not many. But some. They had died simply too.

He wondered now what had happened to their bodies. Had they been made-up with lead and khol and alkanet to mask the way their skin had greyed and their eyes turned to glass? Did the other elves have a version of the procession, did they elect a speaker to perform the laudatio funebris? Were they cremated or buried? Did the family wear the masks, were Faces made and placed in a Hall?

_What would Varania want?_ Callum found himself wondering as he stared at the dead solider.

"Anyway, enough of that. We need to discuss your training. The insult will be redressed after the new year, which leaves us with just under four moons to prepare you."

Callum pulled his attention away from the body, and tried to concentrate on what Hadriana was talking about. It was hard enough to concentrate on anything here, due in part to the heat and in part to sounds of the soldiers around him fighting to stay alive. There was a smell that lingered in the air, slightly sweet and slightly sour and wholly unpleasant. It reminded him of spoiled meat, and once he had made the association he fought to forget it. In a land of magic, there had never been a pressing need to invest in curative medicine, and so the North stood at least an Age behind the cities in the South with regards to remedial knowledge. Instead the Imperium chose to rely mainly on the power of magic to prevent any illnesses, and for those unfortunate to sustain a physical injury there was always the saw and tar and the Maker's will.

In fact, in this one area the poor generally fared better than the rich, as they would usually rely on the powers of a hedge mage or witch to see them through illnesses, to deal with broken bones, difficult births or any of the multitude of ailments that were the scourge of life on the wrong side of the poverty line. The wealthy, on the other hand, concerned with keeping up appearances, preferred to visit 'doctors', a rare title given to Magisters who completed a year's training upon receiving their cap. It was usually those Magisters from poor families, without a House but with Ability, who chose to pursue the vocation. However, it was not a popular specialism and was generally considered a poor substitute for real power. For many the Ability to heal and the Ability to destroy were impossible to maintain simultaneously and, rather than dedicate themselves solely to the medicinal arts most doctors attempted to excel in each skill, resulting in a broad incompetence in both. It was a rare individual who could balance creation and destruction well, though such persons did exist.

"What insult?" Callum asked. Hadriana sighed heavily, and then remembered her role and offered him a half-hearted pat on the hand. He didn't fail to notice that she immediately wiped her palm on her dress.

"The insult to our House, of course. I have just come from the Senate. Do try to keep up," she said with ill-concealed annoyance. "It has been settled that you will meet with the offender in the Coliseum."

Callum sat up in bed, his attention no longer divided. "Absolutely not. I refuse."

Hadriana rolled her eyes, all pretence at friendliness gone. "For Maker's sake Callum. You should want to do this, it was you whom he attacked."

"You don't say?" Callum jeered, gesturing around him, taking in both his bed and the other fifteen beds in the infirmary, the dead body on his left and the old soldier sleeping on his right. "But I will not fight him. Just have him executed. What's the problem with that?"

Hadriana paused.

"Well?" Callum pressed.

And then Hadriana said something she had never planned to say. Later, when she was alone in her rooms, washing off the dirt and tiredness, she tried to make sense of why she hadn't simply stuck to the story Denarius had fed her. But when the moment came she just _couldn't_ bring herself to say the words… Perhaps she had been too frightened of what she might give away, perhaps she had realised Callum would never believe her… _And a real Magister never lies_… Either way, she found herself uttering words that never should have passed her lips.

"I need him to die, and it must be in the Coliseum. I have started something that I cannot stop. You are my last hope, and I believe I may be yours."

Startled, Callum searched her face, looking for any signs of dishonesty or of trickery or even, Maker forbid, truth. But there was nothing there. Just like always, her perfect, porcelain expression remained fixed, her sky-blue eyes cold and empty.

"Go on," he said, watching her intently.

"I know the elf who attacked you is your wh- was _Varania_'s brother. I am also well aware of what you did to the rest of her people. I have known for a long time."

Callum shrugged, trying to appear casual and aloof, but panic began to sting him, running along his arms and squeezing his stomach. "What of it?"

"Grow up, Callum," she hissed, finally losing her temper, "you're in this more deeply than your pathetic little mind could ever imagine. How do you think the brother found you? What do you think is happening here? You're nothing in this game but a pawn, easily scarified and never missed. I'm offering you a chance not only to survive but to escape, with your elf. You have heard of Magister Denarius?"

Callum, stunned into silence, nodded.

"Maker be praised, there is something you know. Denarius wants the brother –"

"Leto. His name is Leto."

"For pity's sake. Yes, if there is one thing I am very blighted aware of it's the name of that _fucking_ elf!" Hadriana pinched the bridge of her nose, drawing a long breath through her teeth, visibly trying to calm down. Callum had never seen her so angry before, and the sight both terrified and fascinated him. It was like watching a ship sink. You could hear the screams of the drowning and knew what you were seeing was a tragedy, but nevertheless couldn't look away from the perverse beauty of all that power slowly faltering and falling beneath the waves.

"Right. Fine. _Leto._ Why not? "Leto and Varania". _Wonderful_. Denarius has invested a lot of time and money into this Leto. He has plans for him – never mind what. Just be aware that, as far as you need be concerned, Leto is currently infinitely more valuable than you are. You won't survive this, Leto needs to kill you and Denarius needs Leto. He is even now with the elf, offering him your head on a plate."

"But why? I don't understand any of this!" Callum wailed. If his neighbour hadn't died already he would have drawn attention to himself. The other patients took no notice, too consumed by their own pain. _Little mercies,_ Hadriana acknowledged.

"Does it matter? Who are you to understand the will of great men? Denarius is the greatest Magister in an Age, and when he has finished with Leto he will unstoppable… _untouchable_. No, Leto must die. And you must kill him."

"Why don't you kill him? You're stronger than me. You know you are, we both know it."

"I cannot do this thing. I must be able to deny any involvement."

"And how will you manage that?" Callum shot back. "It's all but impossible to keep anything hidden in this city. You just admitted you've been reading my memories – probably form the first moment I met you," he added bitterly.

Hadriana smiled, and leant back in her chair. "There at least we are in luck. I can keep this from Denarius easily – in fact, it is his own decision that makes it possible."

Callum paused. His head was spinning. He had cracked his skull hard against the cobbles when Hadriana had thrown him to the ground, saving him from both Leto and the huge charge of Egidius' last ever manifestation of power. It was hard to concentrate. If what Hadriana was implying was true, that this illustrious and eminent man, who he had never met in his life, had decided he must die, Callum was not so stupid as to not realise that his life was forfeit.

He turned again to the body of the soldier. _Does he have a family?_ Callum wasn't sure where the question had come from. Hadriana was talking again, explaining to him that she could help him, train him. She knew how Leto was being trained; she would give him an edge in the fight. It was his best chance of survival. He listened with half an ear, nodding along. But he stared at the body.

Callum thought of his brothers. Both were younger than him, and neither had any Ability. His middle brother, Atticus, would be being trained to take over his father's role on the Asariel council. He had always been a serious minded boy, and would do well. His younger brother, Benedict, on the other hand had always been trouble. Reckless and irresponsible, he would constantly get into fights with the other boys, rolling home long after curfew covered in fresh scabs and dried blood. Callum wondered if the soldier had been like Benedict, always looking for danger and adventure.

_And now he's dead_.

_Is this what life amounts to? Is this all we leave behind us?_

His mother had been so proud when his power had manifested. He had been in the small courtyard garden, so common in Asariel, horsing around with his brothers. He hadn't meant to, but somehow he had ended up throwing Atticus some five feet across the garden. But he hadn't used his hands – he had used his mind. He had simply decided he didn't want his brother on him, punching him, and suddenly he was on his arse half way across the patio, snivelling. It was the first thing he had ever learned to do, and it came to him as easily now as breathing. Just centre yourself and _push_, as if you were opening a stuck door. The Magisters had some fancy name for it – mind shield, mind blast, something. They had fancy names for all the Abilities; but to Callum it would always be, in his imagination, the 'Atticus Basher'. A silly name, coined by a child.

_But I'm no more a child than that soldier._

_If you do something for love, that makes it justified, isn't that right?_

"What about Varania?" Callum asked, eyes still on the dead soldier.

"Haven't you been listening? I said, if you kill him you can have the House. I won't need it. You can do whatever you like with your, excuse me, with Varania."

Callum pulled his gaze from the glassy eyes of the body, and looked into Hadriana's empty blue stare. There was little to distinguish the two. Callum wondered that he had never made the comparison before, and now he had he couldn't stop himself from seeing it. Hadriana's eyes which were so regarded, so complimented, were almost exactly as lifeless as a dead foot solider's. He wanted to laugh, so he did. Why not? He was a dead man, he just hadn't died yet. So he laughed, right in her face, and then he laughed even louder as her skin flushed with anger and her eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me, excuse me," he said between hiccupping fits of laughter, trying to catch his breath. "I'm sorry… It's just… I suddenly feel amazing. I really do. I don't think I've ever felt this brilliant – I feel absolutely alive!" And he was off again, his laughter ringing against the dirty tiled walls, for a moment overcoming the groans and wails of the sick. Hadriana watched him, temporarily unsettled. She had never seen him laugh before, and it struck her for the first time how happy his face could have been, if he had been allowed. She had only ever seen his tanned skin, so common, and his broken nose, so badly set, and his brown mop of hair, so in need of cutting… she had never really noticed before how he was so much more handsome than the sum of his parts.

She stood and fetched a cup of water from the trough that ran along the back wall, and brought it back to his bedside. He thanks her genuinely, and took spluttering sips and he tried to calm down.

"Thank-you," he said after a moment, "I'm not sure what came over me."

Hadriana regarded him coolly. "That's.. No matter. What about Varania, then?"

"Yes, yes. Varania. I cannot imagine I will get out of this alive, even if I kill Leto. So, what will happen to her?"

Hadriana did not miss his choice of phrasing, and she knew she had won. "What would you like to see happen to her?"

Callum thought for a moment, trying to focus. His head was seriously painful now. "She mustn't remain and slave."

"I can take her on as an indentured servant, then."

"Over my dead body," Callum laughed again, despite the throbbing in his temples. "Absolutely not, you are to have no involvement in her life whatsoever, beyond ensuring that whatever we agree on now is fulfilled. And for her mother too. I mustn't forget Aryion."

Hadriana sighed, bored now she knew she was going to get what she wanted. "Fine, as you wish. She has Ability – why not let her be apprenticed?"

Callum considered the idea for moment, before he remembered exactly where he was and why. He shook his head.

"Well, she can hardly be returned to her people," Hadriana said spitefully, "and her brother will be dead. A slave without a master might as well be dead. She'll be in the brothels within a moon, or worse." She yawned, covering her mouth with her pale, soft hand. "You haven't left her with many options, frankly."

"She could be indentured elsewhere, though, couldn't she? Someone kind, like Egidius?"

"Someone weak, you mean? Yes, that is possible."

Callum settled back, resting his aching head against the thin infirmary pillow. He closed his eyes, and heard Hadriana stand to leave.

"One more thing, please, before you leave?" he asked, and he heard her take her seat again. "It is custom that a Magister never lies. Do you accept that? Do you abide by it?"

"Of course."

"Then you must promise that, whatever happens – _if Leto lives or dies_ – if I die you will make sure that Varania is found an indentured position within a House run by a Magister who is kind and forgiving. You must not lie, or make a false promise." He opened his eyes and looked into her own soulless ones, "You must make sure she and her mother are safe, are not degraded, and are cared for. If you can promise this then I will fight. If I live you can keep your house, just let us leave and never try to find us. Do you agree?"

Hadriana nodded, "I agree."

"Good."

Callum closed his eyes until he was sure she had left, and then he rolled on his side and resumed his vigil, watching the body of the soldier as it slowly began its inevitable journey towards decay.

_Hi there Laurie! I can't reply to you directly - but I hope this conversation met with your expectations? I thought it was time to redeem Callum a little, as I'm quite fond of him in his own overly romantic and selfish way._


	37. Chapter 37

**9.21 Dragon**

**Denarius' Townhouse, Minrathous**

The air tasted of winter.

This early in the morning the fog drifted in from the harbour, circling the legs of anyone unlucky enough to be out at such a Maker-forsaken hour of the day. The narrow streets were not crowded yet, and from the high windows of the townhouses the city took on a quasi-mystical calm. Small scenes played out far below. The bakers' apprentices pulled in giant sacks of flour for their masters, their breath misting on their lips only to be lost in the grey murkiness. Dairy carts, pulled by giant Ferelden horses, clattered their way over uneven cobbles. Slaves darted into the fresh, chill air running errands to ensure that everything was perfect when their masters rose. Butchers' boys pulled carts heavy with meat from the ice houses, ready to be carved and sold for small profit.

Usually these scenes went unwitnessed. The wealthy rarely woke early enough to see the day begin, and the poor were too busy living it to observe the gentle beauty of the morning. In a few hours the streets would be bedlam as the professionals, the lawyers, teachers, judges and other so-called priests of the Age, began their day. They would push and shove and swear at each other, all worsening the morning and all complaining about the rudeness of others. But for now everything moved in a slow, gentle and determined rhythm. No one shouted. No one muttered curses under the breath, just loud enough to be heard but not so loud that they might be challenged. The day was new and uncorrupted, and it belonged to those unfortunates who by trade of by circumstance were unable to while away their lives in soft beds, under warm blankets.

Usually these scenes went unwitnessed. This morning, however, Denarius turned from window in his study, high above street level, and stalked back to his desk.

"Did she give any indication if she actually intends for the elf to die?" he asked.

"I cannot say, lord. She spoke convincingly, and the boy seemed to believe her. I assume they were reading each other."

"You're quite sure you were not seen?"

"They saw me lord, they just didn't care." Descimus replied levelly.

Denarius sigh, "No, of course they wouldn't. They only think about magic, don't they? " Descimus remained silent. "Very well. Return to the cell. I'll attend again in a couple of hours."

After Descimus left Denarius poured himself a large measure of wine, and sat at his old desk. He supposed he wasn't surprised. He had seen the way Hadriana reacted, though she was reasonably skilled at hiding her thoughts. _Better than most,_ he couldn't deny what credit was due to her. But it disappointed him that she had nevertheless taken matters into her own hands. It wasn't a problem, not as such. It was just another thing that would need to be managed.

Denarius sipped his wine. It was an ice-wine, made from grapes that had caught the first frosts of winter and was sharp and clear against his tongue. Expensive, of course.

He had first been to see Leto yesterday, after he had met with the Senate, and had sat outside his cell frequently in the last forty hours. Their actual meeting had been short, and he had had one of his guards remove him from the room, as forcefully as the young woman had dared, after only a few moments. It wouldn't do to go back into the cell again, not for a few hours. It had to be believable.

The image of the elf played on his mind. He had been burnt almost to disfigurement, his skin pulled tight and brittle across his skeleton like the surface of a drum. He had lost an eye, Denarius had no idea how. Perhaps it had popped during the electrical storm that had engulfed him, perhaps it had fallen victim to the beating the city watch had given him. Internally he had not faired any better. His ribs had caved in under the steel boots of the guards, managing to pierce both his lung and his skin. Luckily most of the damaged had occurred to his stomach and legs, injuries that were painful, certainly, but far from terminal. The burns, however, were much more serious. Old Egidius had clearly not intended there to have been anything left of the elf, other than perhaps a dirty smear on the cobbles. And he had so nearly succeeded. Denarius tried not to think of how close he had come to losing everything he had worked so hard for.

Leto had screamed when Denarius had healed him, his deep voice reverberating off the stone walls of the cell, his body convulsing against the pain of slowly being rebuilt from blood and bone to skin and tissue. The sight of his eye slowly reforming in the empty socket would be one that Denarius, always intrigued, would ponder over for days to come.

But it hadn't been all bad. For one brief, glorious moment Leto had seemed to know he was there, and had reached out for him. Denarius fancied his could still feel the weak press of the elf's finger tips against his palm. He had even said his name. It had been a rough, papery cry that Denarius doubted Leto would even remember having uttered – but it didn't change the fact that, when he had been in pain, it had been Denarius he had called out for. _And he did it himself, voluntarily_. Denarius wanted to hug himself in delight. _It will be so much easier, now_. Instead the Magister took another gentle sip from his wine, and opened the book that sat on his desk. It was hours until he would be able to return to his ward. Until then, he might as well catch up on his reading.

o0o

Leto heard the door to the cell creek open, and tried to sit up. Too late he realised he was strapped down to the small cot, and the pain of the leather bands against his raw, new skin was overwhelming.

When he came round he saw Tiberius standing over him, his hands enveloped in a gentle blue light as they moved slowly over his torso. What had been a searing white hot pain faded quickly to a dull itch, not dissimilar to the faint burn of stinging nettles. He blinked, and tried to shift position so that he wasn't lying prone on his back.

"Still, my friend. You'll tear yourself again." Tiberius looked down at him, his gentle face a picture of concern. "I've done my best, and my best is better than most. But you must help me by not pulling at the wounds."

"Where am I?"

Tiberius glanced over his shoulder, and Leto wondered what it was he was looking at. All he could see was the ceiling and the face of his friend. Somewhere a light must be burning, but he couldn't see it.

Tiberius returned his gaze, and gave a little half shrug and a weak smile. "You're in the cells at Denarius' house. Do you remember what happened?"

Leto frowned. His temples exploded in a fireball of pain, and white lights spotted his vision. When he awoke again Tiberius was no longer there, and the room was in darkness. _Denarius' house_. Leto let the information sit for a moment. He had expected to wake up, if at all, with his head on the executioner's block.

o0o

Leto woke up screaming.

The room was truly pitch black. There were no windows, and no light to see by. He had no idea how big the space was, or if he was the only one there. He called out, but received no answer except the sound of a hand banging against wood, which he assumed was a guard stationed on the other side of the door.

Leto had never minded the darkness, but now it made him uneasy. Memories darted across his mind in shoals, each bringing with it a sense of utter despair.

He tried hard to think about something else, something that would comfort him and make him brave. But there was no comfort to be had. It was as if his mind had decided to wage a bitter and vindictive war against him; there was no peace. Whenever he fell asleep he dreamed of his sister, recalling how he had promised to look after her when she had been small. Aryion had never been strong, and their father had always been distant even on the rare occasions he had been at camp. So it had been Leto who had stayed up into the night, hugging his baby sister when the nightmares came. It had been Leto who had beaten the older boy when he had pushed Varania into a thicket of sharp brambles after she had called him names. It had never occurred to Leto that his sister might have brought it on herself. She was _his_. His sister. His family. And he had promised her he would look after her – _"what are big brother for if they cannot protect their baby sisters?"_. But he had failed her, he had introduced her to so much danger. He had pushed her away. He had been cruel to her in ways he still didn't understand and it was his fault she was now enslaved.

o0o

Tiberius' voice drifted across the darkness. "I don't know what will happen to you. I wish I did. No, no. That's a lie. I know what will happen. You're going to die, my friend. Denarius will kill you. You attacked the Archon's Parade – Maker! What were you thinking of? Where you thinking at all? No, no. Of course you weren't.

"Did you plan this from the beginning? How could you do this to me? You realise I'm the one who brought you in, who recommended you for Imperial training. If you make it out alive it'll be no less than a miracle.

"Oh Leto.. what were you thinking? You could have been so great, so powerful. Denarius wanted to so much for you. I wanted so much for you. I really thought you were the one.

"But I suppose I was wrong."

o0o

He dreamed of Callum, only now he was forced to watch himself as he befriended the mage. He screamed at the ghost of himself, crying out warnings, yelling threats, shouting curses. But as hard and as loud as he cried out, it made no difference. It was always the same. He watched, helpless, as he welcomed the human into his life, shared his secrets with him, introduce him to his sister. He saw himself fail, again and again, to see what the boy was, or to notice the way he looked at Varania.

o0o

His whole body itched. It was almost a blessing he was strapped down, or else he would have probably scratched himself raw. He thought almost incessantly about Cassandra. He imagined her, beautiful and witty, clever and kind, as she returned to Asariel. His subconscious showed him her arriving at parties, dressed in the latest fashion, her voice soft and bored as she chatted with other well made, elegant woman and danced with wealthy, dashing bachelors until the sun rose. He would picture her with these men, her pale legs wrapped tightly around their waists, her short clean nails trailing shallow scratched down their backs.

And he remembered the feel of the blade as she drove it hard into his chest.

o0o

Denarius sat outside the cell door, concentrating. It wasn't particularly difficult, but he wanted it to be perfect. After a couple of hours he would grow tired, and decide to return to the main part of the house. A guard was summoned, and Denarius left instructions to be informed once the elf had awoken again. It was a slow process, but it had to be done right.

o0o

Leto lay in the dark, remembering the sight of his father... he remembered the sound of his skin cracking as he pulled the melted remains of his belt buckle from his corpse. And always, just on the edge of his senses, was the smell of burnt meat.

And then, for no reason, Leto thought of his friend. The image of Tiberius drifted up from the mire and for a few blessed moments the confusion, pain and guilt eased. Tiberius had helped him. And then he remembered that he had betrayed him too.

He had no idea how much time passed. It felt like days.

o0o

"How are you feeling?"

Leto looked up into the kind eyes of Tiberius and felt his whole body shudder in relief.

"I dreamt you died…" he whispered, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes and rolling down the sides of his face. Tiberius reached out and took his hand, and Leto squeezed tight. If he could have moved, he would have wrapped his arms around the other man.

"No need to cry. I'm still here. As are you."

But Leto couldn't stop. Fat, salty tears dripped down his face, and when he tried to speak all he could manage was a horse stream of babble.

"There, there," Tiberius cooed, stroking his hair with one hand while the other remained caught in Leto's vice-like grip. "Don't cry, don't cry. I'm here. I'm here. See? No need to get worked up. Close your eyes, go to sleep-"

"No!" Leto cried out, his voice thin and scratchy with emotion and disuse, "Please.. don't make me sleep.. I have nightmares.. I don't want to dream.. please… please… I need you..."

Tiberius learnt forward and dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Shush, you need to sleep…"

Leto continued to cry, broken confessions and babbled pleas escaping between sobs. Tiberius sat with him, stroking his hand and whispering soothing words in his ear, and only stopped when Leto feel into an unnatural sleep. Denarius sat with him for a few hours more, watching the way the boy's face twisted and contorted while he dreamed. He took a few minutes to heal him again.

o0o

Tiberius was sitting next to him, his nose in a book, when Leto awoke. Leto was startled how relieved he felt to see the other man. He had been dreaming, and had woken up shocked and frightened, and for a moment hadn't known where he was. He had expected to find Varania curled up next him, snuggled against his stomach like a cat. But they hadn't slept like that for years, even before she had begun to hate him. The dream had left him feeling sad and alone, and he was all too aware that he hadn't felt that way for months. Not since he had met Tiberius.

"How long have you been here?" Leto asked, his voice stiff with sleep.

"A few hours. How are you?"

"Will you not be punished?"

Tiberius snapped his book closed and began to check over Leto. He was faintly ashamed how comforted he felt to feel the healer's hands on his skin, even if the touch was so mechanical. For the moment a memory of a kiss drifted across his mind, and Leto felt himself blush. Whether it was with pleasure or embarrassment he couldn't say.

Once Tiberius seemed satisfied with his progress, he pulled up his chair and rested his elbows gently on the edge of the cot, careful not to disturbed his patient. "I'm already being punished my friend."

If Leto had been able to he would have sat up, alarmed. But he was bound securely to the bed, and could only open his eyes wide in shock. "What's happened? I take full responsibility for my actions, you must tell Denarius that. It had nothing to do with you! Tell him!"

Tiberius, his chin cupped gently in his palms, smiled. "That's kind of you. But, alas, it will not be enough. Not to worry, I am old and have lived a full life. You, on the other hand, are so young. You have your future ahead of you… it is a shame."

Leto cursed. "This is… I will not accept it."

"Ah well… it is not in your power to change." Tiberius said quietly. Silence fell between them. Leto flexed his hands, his wrists wrapped in thick leather straps.

"Can you not unbind me? You know I would never hurt you."

Tiberius glanced behind over his shoulder, and Leto reasoned the door must be in that corner of the room. "No one ever comes in here, only you," Leto sad, misinterpreting the other man's behaviour. Tiberius didn't answer, but after a moment he worked the heavy buckles at his wrists, elbows, chest and stomach loose, and Leto was finally able to pull himself up. Resting on his elbows, he looked around the cell. It was, if anything, an anti-climax. It was just a small stone room, with a brazier burning in the far corner. Behind Tiberius there was indeed a thick oak door. Leto stared at the iron bolts. He had never seen anything so… _heavy_ before.

"I'm glad you seem better," Tiberius said miserably.

Leto pulled his attention away from the cell door, and reached out towards the other man. He placed his hand hesitantly on Tiberius' shoulder. The healer had such an open face, not handsome, but animated and kind. He had a neat little beard, trimmed fastidiously in a fashion that bemused Leto, a member of a species that were famous for their baby smooth skin. It hurt him now to see the tiredness and sadness in his friend's expression.

"There must be something… I'm not worried about myself, but…" Leto drifted off, unsure how to finish his sentence. He knew he was going to die. In fact, he was amazed he was alive now. He had no idea why the Magister had allowed Tiberius to heal him, but he had a sinking feeling it was because he would make a better spectacle with his head in the noose if his body wasn't already half dead. His eyes strayed again to the door. There were at least five bolts, each as thick as his forearm and pushed firmly home, along with two chains that secured the woodened door to its frame.

"You're a good boy, Leto. I only wish things could have been different between us. I had hoped… but never mind. If 'ifs' and 'ands' where pots and pans, what would the world be?"

"What had you hoped?" Leto asked gently.

"Denarius had plans you see. He wanted to make a very special bodyguard. One who could fight blood magic, amongst other things. I had thought, perhaps, you might be the one."

"Oh." Leto was surprised how disappointed he felt. _What had you expected him to say?_

"You're due to be executed tomorrow. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Don't go. I do not want to sleep. And it is always dark when you leave. I… find I am less keen on the darkness."

"Very well. I can stay a little while. But you must do something for me. Will you? Do something for me?"

"Of course."

"Tell me why you attacked that Magister's apprentice. What had Egidius ever done to you?"

Leto laughed aloud, and only stopped when he saw how offended Tiberius looked. _What difference does it make?_, Leto asked himself. _I'm going to die in a few hours. I owe him this much, if not more_. And so Leto told Tiberius everything. He held nothing back, filling in the gaps he had left out of the stories he had already recounted and recalling events he had never mentioned. He told him about Varania, and Callum. He told him about Cassandra. And yet, what he spoke of the most was himself. Tiberius had such a wonderful, friendly face, and was so interested and easy to speak to. Leto found himself divulging secrets he had never even realised he kept, and all the while the healer stroked his head, comforting him and encouraging him. After a couple of hours Leto's eyes began to grow heavy, and he drifted back to his nightmares almost in midsentence.

It never occurred to him to wonder why the cell door had been bolted on the inside.

o0o

Again Leto woke covered in sweat, his heart beating a spasm in his chest. He had dreamed about his sister. She had been covered in blood, and the floor was sopping wet with it. At first he had thought it was her own, but the dream had shifted, and he had realised it was his mother's blood he was standing in. It had been sticky under his bare soles, and when he had tried to run towards Varania he had slipped and slid across the slick floor. She had been calling his name, but as fast as he ran the further away she seemed to be, until eventually she seemed as distant as the Black City. Callum had been laughing, his infectious enjoyment echoing across the Fade. Tiberius had been there… he had been trying to speak to him, to help him…

Tiberius…

Tiberius was shaking him. Leto snapped into focus, and waved the other man away. He looked down at himself in surprise, "You didn't tie me up again?"

"No, no… that's not important. Listen, just listen," the healer spoke frantically, his voice coming out in a rushed whisper.

"What is it?" Leto asked, his voice taking on the same agitated whisper in sympathy.

Tiberius took both Leto's hands in his own, and brought them up to his lips, dropping kisses on his knuckles in his excitement. "Do you trust me?" Tiberius asked, his kind blue eyes meeting Leto's. Without a pause Leto replied, "Yes."

"Good, good. I can save you, and your sister and mother. Or rather, I can help you to save them."

Leto started, and pulled his hands free. "What? How?"

"You will be allowed to fight the boy, Callum, in the Coliseum. You can kill him there, with no repercussions. And, here is the best bit, if you perform well, if you put on a show, the Archon will likely grant you a boon. You can request your sister be freed! Isn't that splendid?! But you must give them a show – you can't simply run him through."

"Wait, wait – exactly how am I expected to kill him? I'm no match for a Magister. Cassandra said as much, but I didn't believe her…"

"And rightly so. Firstly, this boy is an apprentice, not a Magister. Secondly, this Cassandra of yours hadn't reckoned on you having me to help you. I can train you, help prepare you. "

"Bah," Leto spat. "You are no fighter, Healer. How can you possibly train me? You're too gentle to know anything of killing."

Tiberius endeavoured to look hurt, and succeeded. "Trust me. I can get you ready. We can get you runes, to begin with. You know what a rune is?" Leto nodded slowly, remember the rune Cassandra had had placed on her blade. "We can have some specific armour made for you, with runes sewn in. That will help. Plus there is a special material, spirit-hide, which can be purchased. It's expensive, but then so is anything worth having. That will take a lot of the force out of even the most powerful spells. Yes, yes. Do you think, if magic were not a factor, you could beat this Callum?"

Leto couldn't help the snort of derision that escaped him. "Certainly. If magic were not a factor."

Tiberius stood and began to pace excitedly around the room. "I knew you would be able to, I knew it! This is it, Leto. We're saved! We're saved!"

"None of this makes sense!" Leto interrupted, "Even if what you say is true, why would I be allowed to fight him? Why would Denarius spend money on me?"

Tiberius stopped pacing, and stood at the bottom of Leto's cot, where his legs and ankles were still bound.

"Ah. Well, here my friend is the moment when you must decide how much your vengeance means to you. Denarius will not only ensure you are given the opportunity to settle your debt of honour in the Coliseum, but will also bankroll you. But there is a price. A high price."

Tiberius waited, but Leto just stared at him, his dark green eyes unreadable beneath his fringe of tar-black hair. "Denarius would use you in an experiment. There is a strong chance you may die, and if you live you will remember nothing. It will be extremely painful, though I will be present to help you through the process. When you awake, your life, your future, will belong to Denarius."

"But my sister and my mother will be free?"

"You have my word."

"…What about Cassandra?"

"What about her? You won't remember her. Do you honestly think she remembers you? You're an elf."

Leto's eyes dropped. The thought of seeing Cassandra again had sustained him for months. It had kept it alive in the quarries, and had given him hope during his months of training at Denarius' country manor. But now that Tiberius said it, it did seem impossible to imagine that she would wait for him. _Why would she ever choose me over her own kind? Over the life they can give her? _It suddenly seemed ridiculous, the dream of a child.

"Besides," Tiberius said softly, as if he understood the difficulty of the thoughts that occupied Leto, "without me, without this deal, you will die today. Denarius will see you dead, believe me."

Leto's mind raced. He looked down at his legs, scarred and bruised and tied to the narrow cot. He began to feel tired again, and for a moment panic overwhelmed him, _please don't let me sleep… no more dreams…_

"I will forget?"

Tiberius looked him in the eye. "You will forget everything."

"And can I trust this man, this Denarius? Why not just perform this experiment now? Why gift me with this opportunity for vengeance?"

Tiberius walked to the side of the bed, and took Leto's hand in his own. He felt warm, and safe. "Because it is a complicated experiment, and you need to agree to it. It is magical, and requires acceptance."

"And if I break my word?"

"I don't believe you will break your word. I think you will be happy to see your enemy dead, and your sister and mother free. And I think you're ready to forget, aren't you? Don't you want to let it all go? Don't you trust me?"

Leto looked up in Tiberius' eyes. There was nothing there but sweetness and concern.

"Yes."


	38. Chapter 38

**9.27 Dragon**

**Denarius' Townhouse, Minrathous**

There are nineteen people here. There should be twenty, but Mgst. Cornelius' daughter is giving birth, so she cancelled. Nineteen people, and the table is ill-set as a result. Perhaps we should have moved the empty seat closer to the door… but it would have ruined the aspect. The room stands at greater advantage with the empty chair in the far corner. Nine windows. The glass is thin, but the ironwork is close. No one can come in through the window. I hate these Orlesian windows, they are so difficult to monitor. The bowmen on the roof will catch anyone before they reach the room. If not, I am here. _He slaughtered that boy. _Everyone is seated? Move now, stand at his side. Keep close. Smile when he speaks. Watch the room. Who is here, why is he hosting this event? Hadriana, of course. Not on his left tonight, but at the bottom of the table, in the hostess' seat. What has she done to warrant that reward? He seems quiet. Is he sad, or angry? How can I make him feel better? Pour the wine. A drop of cinnamon in his wine, to spice it. Mulled in winter, chilled in summer. Not hot. Just above the temperature of his skin. Gladius, Aurili, Constance: Court officials, no one to be concerned about. They reek of fear. Food uneaten. Aegnus, Horetio, Phillius, Amenia, Julius, Marcus, Leanidra, Octavio, Magnus: Magisters, all from Houses except Marcus who owes his seat to Denarius and is loyal. Only two apprentices, saving Hadriana. Bann Alfstanna from the Waking Sea and two courtesans. The Waking Sea. _Am I awake? _And my Master. No sting of magic, just the usual pain. Keep on guard. Don't relax. Keep him safe. He needs you. He needs you. Six months ago Aegnus met with Horetio in the bathhouse. It costs seven silvers to bath there. Anstdae is the day I accompany him there. Together, alone. He talks to me then, and everything is clear. Aegnus and Horetio plan to kill him. Watch them. They are so fussy, checking every bite that slips past there white, fleshy lips. As if he would poison them. He has me. I would never let anything happen to him. Pour the wine. _There was so much blood, surely there was too much?_ A drop of cinnamon in his wine, to spice it. Mulled in winter, chilled in summer. Not hot. Just above the temperature of his skin. Dare I touch him when I fill his glass? It has been days since we were so close. I could brush my fingers against his own. The subtly would please him. The tablecloth was delivered from the steam rooms too early, and it has creased. No one should see, but perhaps I can move the salver as few inches, and straighten the cloth while I do it. Will I draw more attention than the crease itself? Aegnus is whispering again. He thinks he is safe, so far away from my master, hidden behind the din of the meal. He forgets I am an elf. They all forget it, and speak recklessly when they should be guarded. "Tomorrow night, after the opening of court. His creature won't be with him… No, no I'm certain of it. The Archon won't allow it to enter. Fast, that's the trick. Horetio has the guard, they will bolt the doors and ignore any unusual cries until we give the signal." Damn. Hadriana has stood. Drop your eyes, be dutiful, hold out her chair. Pick up the conversation, pick up the conversation, pick up the conversation. No. Startled like rats. Maker, how weak they are. My master shouldn't waste his time or money on such filth. I could kill them now. Maybe I should. Would that make him happy? He's smiling now, but I know him better. He never smiles like that when he is happy. I know his true smile, he saves it for me. I make him happy. I make him happy. He loves me. I love him. _The boy didn't even cry out as the knife cut him._ More wine. Pour the wine. A drop of cinnamon in his wine, to spice it. Mulled in winter, chilled in summer. Not hot. Just above the temperature of his skin. The fish course is finished. The smell makes me sick. The stench of the sea. Disgusting. He never eats fish. He refuses it for me, I'm certain of it. He loves me. And I love him. Hadriana will be cruel tonight. She is always worse when she has found favour. Seventy-six knives on the table, plus seven serving knives. Silver, so soft. Most are blunt. Only the meat knives could be a problem. Forks. Forks are more troublesome. Will I be allowed to see him tonight? Concentrate. _He smiled as the boy died, and said that nothing was as precious as the blood of the young. He smiled._ He smiled at me. Smile back, bow head, be respectful. Don't embarrass him. Walk around the table again, back to his side. Keep back. Be visible, don't intrude. Listen. Something at the window! No, nothing. Stand by him, don't jump at shadows. The meal is finished? So soon. No. Something else has taken their attention away from their food. Me. Is he embarrassed? Did I distract them? I must have, the tattoos… A demonstration. He is angry. Step forward. Close eyes. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKOHMAKERI TBURNSPLEASEITBURNSPLEASEFUC KFUCKFUCKSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPPLE ASEPLEASEPLEASELETITSTOPPLEA SEPLEASEPLEASESTOPSPLEASESTO PPLEASESTOPPLEASEPLEASEPLEAS EILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUPLE ASESTOPPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEFUC KFUCKFUCKILOVEYOUWHYAREYOUDO INGTHISWHYAREYOUDOINGTHISWHY WHYWHWYPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEANY THINGANYTHINGANYT-Breathe. Breathe. He's finished. Breathe. Get to your feet, don't blub like a disgusting child. Slowly. Don't wheeze. Step back again. Bow to him. Thank him. Pour the wine. A drop of cinnamon in his wine, to spice it. Mulled in winter, chilled in summer. Not hot. Just above the temperature of his skin. _I hate him_. _I hate him. I hate him._ I hope I haven't ruined his night. I have information for him. He will love me again when I tell him. When everyone has left, and it is just us, he will love me again. He will love me again.


	39. Chapter 39

**9.22 Dragon**

**The Coliseum, Minrathous**

Varania shoved her way through the crowd, pushing against backs and ducking between shoulders. She couldn't see where she was going, there were too many people and she was too short, too small, too late.

It was hot and fetid. She didn't notice how occasionally hands would pinch her or squeeze her, taking advantage of her size and species for a free thrill. All she cared about was beating her way through the throng to the arena. Sweat stung her eyes, stinging and painful. She closed them tight and kept shoving her way forward. She didn't need to see, she just needed to keep moving forward. Everyone had the same destination in mind. She only needed to get there before the gates were closed.

She was only half aware when her tunic tore. Someone must have grabbed at her too enthusiastically, causing the expensive silk to rip. The sticky heat of the crush pressed against her, filling her lungs with the taste of flatulence, stale sweat and cheap wine. Still she pushed forward.

The Coliseum hadn't seen crowds like this in half an Age, yet like a retired courtesan it found that it still knew all its old tricks. It had opened its doors again to the city, and the city had responded with gay abandon. Inside the impossibly tall stone walls half of Minrathous were trying to gain access to the arena, by any means necessary. Most were simply trying to push their way in, but small fights were beginning to break out. Someone had tried to scale the wall, and fallen with a sickening thump. The city guard had given up all attempts at crowd control, and were now waiting out the clock. The trampled dead would be collected once the show has begun. They expected to be busy - this was history after all, and everyone wanted to be able to say "I was there".

The streets outside were no calmer. Mummers and acrobats capered across the cobbles, performing gymnastics and parlour magic for coins or food. Furriers and merchants sold skins, silks and spices, hot food and warm wines. Inevitably cut-purses and prostitutes weaves and wound their way through the crowds, and more than once Varania had been approached by hopeful men, assuming that, as an elf, they would be able purchase from her for a few coppers the same services a human would charge silvers for.

The district was alive again. It pulsed and writhed, delighting in the attention it had longer for all, but all Varania could do was pray over and over again _please let me reach him in time, please let me reach him in time, please let me reach him in time._

**9.39 Dragon**

**Anders' clinic, Darktown, Kirkwall**

"_Hope is in place." _

Justice lifted his head from his work, frowning at the empty room. The whispery soft voice of Faith floated from wall to wall, unattached to any physical body. She believed it was easier to remain immaterial and intangible. She said it promoted her more successfully than any visitation ever could. She would smile when she said things like that, and Justice always wondered what the joke was. _No, not always. Only since I took possession of the body. _He realised he found his counterpart slightly smug, a word he knew was not his own. Was it stolen from the dwarf? Or did it belong to the mage he had subsumed?

Justice had noticed an increasing amount of intrusion as the years had passed. It was becoming apparent that neither the mortals nor the first children had really understood the nature of possession.

The mortals were scattered in their beliefs. Some, like his friends, believed that somehow both identities could inhabit the same body equally, separately; other mortals and the first children believed the human soul would be extinguished, leaving only a deamon.

Neither was wholly true, Justice now knew. There would be so much to explore and understand, once the world was as it should be. And with Hope now firmly established within the Circle, it remained only for Justice to provide the catalyst. _The way the world must be._

_Why did I call them my friends?_

Justice shook himself. Smug or not, Faith required his full attention. "I am also ready," he replied.

"_Will he kill you?"_

There was no need for clarification; Justice had been mulling over the same question for days. "Possibly. Yet.." He paused. It would be a near thing. Hawke, the key, would not overlook the death of so many, even for a cause he now supported whole-heartedly. And by the gods, Hawke believed. Justice had worked hard to show him the disparity, the inequality that the mages faced, and he was proud of his work. Even the elf had not been able to shake Hawke's conviction. But would he, Justice, be killed?

"...Yet I suspect not."

"_It would be easier perhaps if he did."_

The body swallowed, and Justice was grateful he was alone in the clinic. "If you wish it so, you will need Fe - the valesh'engris to push him to it." There was no edge to his voice, nothing to give him away.

"_So it will not be. It is proving difficult enough for each to accept the other. To add more conflict would not be wise."_

The room fell to silence. Justice rested his head in his hands. His temples were hurting. When the headaches had begun he had been quite interested in them. He had never had a migraine before, never having had a head. Unfortunately familiarity breeds contempt. He only just suppressed a groan when Faith spoke again.

_"Do not trouble yourself, brother. It matters not. But a martyr is always so much more satisfying. People believe in sacrifice."_

"People believe in many things," he snapped.

"_As I can attest," she relied levelly._

He picked up the pestle and started to grind down the frost rock he had bought earlier, a little more aggressively than was perhaps necessary. There was something unusual happening. He shouldn't be feeling like this.

"Where is Desire?"

"_With the valesh'engris. We require it remain with the key. We deemed it worthy of further attention."_

"They are very much in love. She has excelled herself. I did not think it would be possible."

"_Everything is possible."_

"Of course. I meant no offense."

"_You do not offend, brother. You have been encased too long."_

Justice sighed. There was no point trying to hide what was happening to him, and, perhaps, it would be better to tell someone. That's what Hawke always said. "Yes. The human remains. I had thought that he would cease to be, that I would repress him. But he remains here, with me."

"_You are able to remain distinct?"_

"Of course," he rolled his eyes. _What does she think? That she's talking to the mage?_ Justice couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice. Maddeningly, it made no difference. She didn't notice. "I have also endeavoured to present a clear separation to the mortals, and they continue to believe that I am their compatriot. When the act is completed they will blame what they believe to be the spirit of Vengeance. We have been successful."

"_Caution, friend. The Towers still stand. Until the mages are free and unprotected, until the _valesh'engris _has opened the door... Until we have the world again, until it is as it should be and have always been, we are not successful.__"_

Justice didn't reply. He knew Faith was right. He slammed the pestle against the mortar, focusing all his attention on the fine white powder he was creating. He muttered under his breath as he did so. After five minutes of silence he decided he was alone again.

"It's becoming harder, isn't it?"

Justice shrugged. "Yes. I am conflicted."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

If you were to ask an actor how they get into character they might talk to you about Stanislavsky or Brecht, about finding the centre of the character. Often the costume helps, applying the make-up, finding a line. But when the character is found then, if there is talent, the actor simply disappears. They dissolve and are replaced. Oh, it might be the same body, the same eyes, the same hair, but it is without doubt a different person.

And so it was with Justice. Suddenly his shoulders dropped. His eyebrows pinched, turning his expression from one of certainty to one of melancholy bitterness. His voice changed. Where it had moments before been assured, deep and confident it now rose by an octave, and took on a slight tremor. It wasn't a frightened tone, but it wasn't happy either.

"Are you still going to go through with it?" The new man asked, using Justice's vocal cords, his lungs, his tongue and lips.

"Yes." Justice again.

A shift, a change, and Anders returned.

"Good. Let them all burn."

**9.22 Dragon**

**The Coliseum, Minrathous**

Both men took deep, gulping breaths of gritty air into their lungs while the crowd stomped and called out in rage and indignation at this momentary ceasefire.

"Bah." The elf spat out a tooth, but continued, "If I am a dog I have been trained well. You have no idea the tricks I have learnt."

And then Callum smiled, his open, friendly face lightened by a wide grin and for one moment he was fifteen again, playing at magic in the woods; his future, bright and full of adventure and purpose, lain out before him. He placed his palm above the gash in his stomach, and began to move it in slow, multifaceted movements. The blood from the wound began to mist and take shape around his hand. The air in the arena tightened, the Veil between the worlds pulled taught by the magic Callum was weaving. The young man looked his erstwhile friend in the eye as his own blood began to swirl around him with ever-increasing speed.

"Nor have you, friend."

And a thousand Tevinter voices roared in approval.

Leto stepped backwards. He had been trained for this, but it still shocked him to see the blood mist and spin around the boy he had known.

He pulled his sword from the sand, measuring its weight, an action born of habit rather than necessity. He ignored the pain in his forearms as his charred skin cracked. He ignored the tidal roar of the crowd as they hooted and hollered. He ignored the blood that trickled down the ruined side of his face.

The sand around the Mage was spinning and turning, caught up in the rushing tornado of blood that twisted around him. It took less than ten seconds for Callum to be totally obscured.

Despite the growing sand storm and the loss of an ear, Leto could still hear the screams of terror and delight from the terraces as, like worms during a thunderstorm, the bodies of the dead began to rise from ground. Jerky hands grasped for purchase on the shifting sand, scrabbling and sliding in the hurricane Callum was creating.

Callum disappeared, lost in the swirling, biting mists of sand. The Coliseum floor quickly became a blizzard. The high walls of the sunken arena offered no protection to those who sat closest to the fighting. Sand and blood mixed together and flew in the faces of the audience, stinging their eyes and causing them to gasp for choking breaths of air. Leto narrowed his eyes; what had, mere moments before, been the throat-tightenly horrific sight of the corpses of ancient mages, slaves and warriors slowly clawing their way out of the earth had become a world of hazy shadow and gruesome imagination.

_Where is he?_

_Where is he?_

_Where is he?_

The sand scratched at his face, sticking to the exposed meat of his cheek and jaw; it buried itself in the weeping burns that covered his forearms; it stuck to his eyelashes and the wormed it way up his nose and down his throat. The shadowy figures of the dead began to stand on unsteady legs, Callum's magic keeping the upright more surely than their own wasted muscle and bone.

_Where is he?_

_Where is he?_

_Where is he?_

Leto watched the staggering corpses as the lurched slowly towards him. Callum wasn't so strong, he realised suddenly. The puppets he had created could barely move, each one walking on rigid legs that refused to bend at the knee, arms flailing at their sides, no weapons in their hands. He had no precision, no art. Somewhere out there, Leto knew, Tiberius was waiting for him, and he would be laughing, if he were able to see what exactly was happening in the centre of the storm.

He closed his eyes.

_Still._

_Still._

_Breathe._

Leto let himself wind out, as he had done so many times before, as his father had taught him. He had always known, deep inside him, what he was. What he had been born for. He had always been different, separate from the world and the people in it. It had never made sense to him, though Maker knew he had tried so hard to understand what it was that other people saw in the endless, repetitive monotony of it all. But know he knew.

Everything had always made so much more sense to him when he had been hunting. The world, in all its multicolour noise and clamour, had stilled and quietened and he could _see_, truly and perfectly see and understand.

Tiberius had suggested that he had a little magic in him, a little bit of the Fade in his blood. Cassandra had called it obsession, and had told him it would kill him. Varania had accused him of being little more than an animal, a beast that was only capable of death. Callum had taunted him, calling him a dog, a pet of his master.

Leto let all these thoughts drop away from him. He knew what he was.

He counted his breaths, in and out in slow measure. The noise of the crowd faded, unimportant and dilute.

He could feel the ache in his muscles, the pain that burned down to his bones. He could feel the hilt of his sword in the palm of his hands, the metal warmed from his tight grip. He rolled his shoulders, the bones in his collar and spine audibly cracking.

And there, underneath it all, he could feel himself. He could feel his heart beating. He could feel the blood rush through his veins. He could feel the hard knot of adrenaline and pleasure settle in his stomach as he focused all his being, as he pulled himself in… in…_ in._

His eyes snapped open.

The corpses where surrounding him now, grey, dead arms reaching out towards him, mottled fingertips inches from his face.

And there, less than fifty paces away from him, was the centre of the storm.

_There he is._

Sharp nails tore at his face as the risen dead swarmed.

Leto lifted his sword, and with a bellow brought the impossibly heavy blade sweeping around him in an arc, ripping through the nearest of the leathery bodies. Howling and snarling, his sword hacking and slicing through the swathes of lurching, clawing copses, he charged forward, towards his destiny.


	40. Chapter 40

**9:21 Dragon**

**Minrathous**

_Two houses, quite alike in dignity..._

House Egidius closed its doors on the very same evening Egidius' token was interred in the Hall of Faces. Deliveries came in, trash was taken away, but otherwise there had been no sign of life inside the old manor house for months; the wooden gates remained closed, the heavy curtains drawn across the ornate windows. The gardens, famous for their landscaping and subtly, with no one tending them, had quickly died in the biting chill of the Tevinter winter. Fog, thin as whispers, coiled around the bare branches of the dead trees that lined the sweeping driveway; it lay over the empty gardens like a bitter memory.

Rumours spread as they are wont to do, flying from lips to ears to lips like the most virulent of diseases. Hadriana had gone mad with grief. Her champion had fled in terror. She had begged a spirit for aid and been possessed. She had run, taking what she could, fearful of losing everything in defeat.

For the first few moons of autumn children had jumped on the back of carts heading out passed the city gates to spend their afternoons daring each other to climb the wall that encircled the sprawling estate, or to squeeze through the ironwork gate and run up to the stone stairs and touch the entrance. But soon it became too cold to stand around in the open air. Lessons were beginning again, and parents had begun to grow suspicious and forbid their excursions. And, in truth, it became boring. They never so much as caught a glimpse of The Viper, nor of her champion.

And, as is so often the case, time managed to turn the intriguing into the mundane. By the first snows the residents of the House of Egidius had been mostly forgotten, as newer scandals and gossip gripped the city. This was not to say that the battle between the Houses Denarius and Egidius wasn't eagerly awaited. The city buzzed with anticipation, an electric pulse that danced from living room to tavern, from stable to store, from office to library and all the places in between. But, at least regarding the two apprentices, it had soon became separate and abstract, disconnected from the reality of Hadriana and Callum, too young and too arrogant to know any better, actually pitting themselves against one of oldest, wealthiest and feared Houses in the history of the Imperium. It became House Egidius' folly, and it was easy to believe any and all of the rumours, even without the added weight of the locked doors and shuttered windows.

Hadriana saw no issue with this. There was much to be said for her personal involvement in this charade being minimised. There was more than a few elements to Denarius' plan that she herself would rather forget, not least of which was her own involvement in its fruition.

Callum was training hard, and she couldn't deny the fact that he was making phenomenal progress. But the truth had to be faced: as hard as he worked, as many hours as Hadriana put into training him, he simply did not have the Ability. He might, perhaps, have made a Magister in his own backwater; especially if he had not tried to earn a House for his name. But now he was to face the champion of one of the greatest Houses the Imperium had ever birthed, with all the attendant training and equipment that went along with Denarius' wealth, his prestige, his intellect and Ability.

And yet, despite both's absolute expectation of failure, they couldn't stop training. For Hadriana and Callum their lives where no longer their own; they were pulled like pigs by the nose towards their future. There was no way out, though silently each one prayed for some kind of release, for the Maker to do something, _anything_, to loosen the ties that bound them to the Coliseum. But Hadriana wanted Denarius too much to stop now her ambition was almost fulfilled, even though she knew he saw in her only a means to an end.

And Callum, wretched and trapped, already dead despite his beating heart, wanted only to know that Varania was safe. Each morning he would wake long before the dawn to lay in bed and gaze at Varania as she slept, her pale face marred by nightmares she would never talk about in the mornings. He would beg the Maker to send the Qunari in their war boats against the city, or to incite the slaves to revolt, or to flame the anger of the White against their magocracy, their so-called heresy. But each day was the same. No war came. No revolution. No escape.

Varania would wake as the brittle light of dawn fell through the large Orlesian window panes, and find Callum's side of the bed cold. Every day she wandered around the manor, as lost and alone after nearly eighteen months as she had been the first day she arrived. She saw no one during the day except the empty husk of her mother and at night when Callum would fall through the door to their suite, bruised, bleeding and exhausted, she would greet him angrily, her temper frayed by hours of isolation.

Each day she promised herself that she would be kinder to him, that she would nurse him and care for him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, and tell him how much she loved him, how sorry she was. But despite all her good intentions when she did finally see him she would end up bitterly snapping at him, her fear and anxiety manifesting themselves in snide comments and screaming accusations. She would lay the blame for everything at his door: their reliance on Hadriana, her mother's mental illness, her own unhappiness, his agreement to the battle... And Callum, defeated and abused, would simply sigh and mutter "If you say so", driving Varania to near madness with resentment and ire. Inevitably her screaming rants would devolve into tear soaked apologies, and grasping demands for affection - all of which exhausted Callum beyond belief.

Callum, who should have been stronger with Varania, who should have told her what she secretly longed for and needed to hear - that he loved her still, that everything would be ok - felt so keenly his own hand in the destruction that was wrecking their lives that he lost all his confidence. The blame she lay at his door was unequal to that which he heaped on himself, and, resigned to his own death, he felt it only fair that he take all the abuse she hurled at him, and that he forgive her when her mood invariably flipped.

Neither Callum nor Hadriana ever told Varania that Leto was in Minrathous, nor that he was Callum's opponent. If perhaps Callum had confided in her, she might have been in a position to save them all. Varania, and Varania alone, could have stopped everything from happening, not only Callum's death, but Leto's as well. Eventually, she could even have saved Hadriana and Denarius. She could have prevented the death of thousands of innocents as a result of the schism between the southern Chantry and it's Templars; the millions who would be massacred when the mages, unprotected and afraid, turned to the spirit world for aid, and found false friends waiting for them. The key, the eluvian and the valesh'engris would never be joined, and the old God would not return.

But Callum never found the courage to confess, and instead the House limped on towards the near year, and the Coliseum.

Denarius ensured that for Leto the months of preparation were peaceful and focused. The very best in weaponry, training and nutrition was provided for him, and his natural ability was strengthened and honed until he became something truly terrifying.

Leto ate, slept and breathed his vengeance, though his obsession was helped, of course, by Denarius. Each night the Magister would sit quietly outside his room, concentrating his energies into a needle point focus, deftly pulling back the layers of Leto's subconscious, releasing all his fears, anxieties and anger. And, when the boy awoke, sweat-stained and screaming, Tiberius was there to comfort him.

Tiberius was a life-line for Leto, a safe space in a world of betrayal and guilt. He helped him through the nights, talking to him and reassuring him, easing his fears and guiding his thoughts towards the moment when he would be free – free of his guilt, free of his past, and, most importantly, the freedom he would be ensuring for his sister and mother. If Leto ever doubted his ability, or ever questioned the deal Tiberius had brokered for him with the ever distant Denarius, the healer was there to help him see he had made the right decision.

And, with his friend's help, Leto slowly began to see in himself the potential that Tiberius said he had. He began to think about his reticence and distance from the world not as handicaps but as assets, though not in the way Tiberius may have wished. Where the mage felt that Leto had accepted his destiny – as Denarius truly believed it to be – Leto in fact had resigned himself to it.

Leto listened when Tiberius told him he was exceptional and terrific. Oh yes. He was an exception, removed and disconnected from the world. Life was terrible, and he intended to inspire terror in the man who had taken away from him the only connection he had to world. He listened and he understood.

Where time had stilled in Egidius' manor, for Leto the months flew by in a blur. He lost all track of time, each day bleeding into the next until days became weeks, weeks became months and these months became the new year. The twenty-second year of the 9th Age, the Age of the Dragon, so named by the White Devine to herald the return of the old beasts, those creatures of legend and myth. 9.22 Dragon. The year of his death.

**9.22 Dragon**

**The Coliseum**

Hadriana had been certain for months that Callum would die. When she saw the elf step into the arena, his body covered in the oily blackness of the spirit-hide armour, the runes that decorated the blade of his sword catching the winter sun, sending sharps blades of light into her eyes, she knew she had been right. And now all she could do was watch as her apprentice tried desperately to regain the upper hand in a fight he had no hope of winning, his last hopeless attempts at attack reeking of desperation.

She stood in the Archon's box, along with Denarius, the Archon himself and a select group of Magisters and other officials whose names and stations she had barely heard when Denarius had introduced her. It should have been one of the greatest moments of her life, but all she could do was stare at the brutal events of the arena as they played out below her.

She longed to dip into Callum's mind, to advise him and to lend him some of her strength, but she was too far away – a fact that was no accident. The Coliseum had been built with magic in mind, and the arena itself was sunken some fifteen feet below and ten feet in from the circling stone steps of the audience and the enclosed boxes of the wealthy, in order to ensure that play was fair. Even for those with as much Ability as Hadriana, it would be impossible to access the energy needed from the Fade to cover such a distance and channel it into something, _anything_, without copious amounts of blood – hardly the subtle art of cheating.

_What would they _really _do if I grabbed a slave and bled it dry? Would they stop before that damned elf died?_ But Hadriana knew that if Leto died by her hand Denarius wouldn't even need to kill her. The Senate would see her executed or banished. This was not a simple affair, a question of coin or the shame of an inadequate slave. It was a matter of honour between two Houses, a settlement she herself had insisted on. It was not for her, nor Denarius nor any other person to decide the winner. The Maker, in all his grace and wisdom, would see that the worthy survived and the guilty perished.

And, if the death was bloody and painful, well, so much the better.

Hadriana watched as Callum, barely able to stand, called up a dozen shambling corpses that would not even be fit to show to a room of acolytes, let alone to stand against the beast that Denarius had created. When the sandy floor of the arena blew up and around the two players Hadriana for a moment forgot Callum's defunct Ability, and the obvious savagery of the elf. Leto stumbled backwards and it seemed suddenly that he had fallen, that he had lost his strength, or perhaps had given up in the face of so much death. As she watched him freeze, head down, sword in hand, oblivious to the stuttering, lumbering dead that blundered their way towards him, closer and closer, until they surrounded his seemingly paralysed form, she found herself gripping the stem of her glass so tightly it cracked, unnoticed, in her palm.

And then she stared in horror as Leto tore through the pathetic corpses like so much paper, his movements fluid and grotesquely beautiful as he all but danced into the centre of the storm, to the place where she knew Callum would be hiding, trying desperately to balance his connection to the Fade. Leto spun and whirled, ducked and parried, stabbed and swung further into the whirlwind, a tiny black dot that was soon lost in the miasma.

Minutes passed like hours. Nothing could be seen as the sand storm raged in the centre of the arena. The crowd, moments before reduced to a screaming, snarling howl now fell silent as a thousand eyes peered into the fug, trying to make out what was happening.

And then, slowly, the sand began to fall.

Hadriana closed her eyes, unable to watch as the dust began to settle and the hazy outline of a lone, lithe figure, standing above a forlorn heap of muscle and bone, slowly appeared. The last threads of a hope she didn't even know she had been entertaining snapped. So she sipped her wine from its broken glass as blood trickled through her fingers, and listened to roar of anguish and surprise from the human crowd. And she knew, then, that she had lost.


	41. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**Varania**

Varania never made it into the Coliseum. Despite her best efforts she was simply too far back in the crowd to have had any chance of reaching the arena before the large inner doors were barred against her. She stood, wedged into the stinking, disappointed crowd and screamed and cursed at the top of her lungs, her anguish lost in the pandemonium surrounding her.

She had only left the manor some twenty minutes behind Callum, but without access to the chase she had been forced to walk into the city, and by the time she had reached the theatre district and the towering walls of the Coliseum the whole of Minrathous seemed to have descended. And so she was forced to endure the buffeting of crowd, grasping onto any relayed information about the battle that was being waged, unknowingly to Varania, for her freedom.

Poor Varania. For the first time in her life she had exactly what she wanted: she was the epicentre of one of the largest and most anticipated events in the recent history of Minrathous; she was finally important. And yet all she could do, once her voice had given out and her tears had dried in streaks on her pale cheeks, was replay in her mind again and again the argument she had engineered with Callum that morning. The argument that had caused him to leave without her, and to now be fighting for his life and hers alone, not knowing that she was there with him, that she was sorry for everything, and that she loved him.

Over and over again she saw herself with him, only this time she was different. She was calmer and less afraid, she spoke to him about her fears and persuaded him to run with her, before Hadriana and the rest of the manor awoke, instead of crying and screaming and insulting him, forcing him further away from herself when all she wanted was for him to take her in his arms and run. _I'll never feel his arms around me again…. I'll never smell his skin… I never knew… I'll never hear his voice… I'm alone, I'm alone…_

And when she heard the scream of disbelief and misery echoing through the thick stone walls of the arena, out over the heads of the crowd and into the labyrinthine streets of the city, she knew she was right.

It was in the early hours of the next morning she returned to Egidius' manor, not, to her shame, because she realised that her mother had been there alone for hours, but because she was brought. She had been pushed and pulled by the crowd as they exited the Coliseum, and it had seemed easier to her then to allow it. She had ended up miles from the theatre district, in an area of the city she didn't know and didn't care to. She had walked, lost and dumbstruck, until the city guard had finally picked her up and taken her to the lost property cells. From there she had, after some investigation, been returned to the manor.

Hadriana had signed for her, and Varania was dimly surprised to find the other woman at home. For some reason she had expected Hadriana to be out celebrating, though she was unsure why she had thought such a thing. Hadriana had lost as well, hadn't she?

Varania followed the other woman as she led her through the house and into the room that had once served as Egidius' office. She had never been in here before, and was momentarily startled out of her gloom by the unexpected cosiness of the space. Egidius had never really taken any notice of her, and he had always appeared to her to be little more than a bumbling old man with a faintly ridiculous desire for a woman many years his junior. But now she was standing in his private rooms she wondered if she had made another mistake in not trying to know him more.

The walls were lined with bookcases, each filled with books that had obviously been well-read and well-loved, if their tattered spines were any indication. Small tables were dotted like islands around the room, some set with silver framed miniatures of landscapes or still-lifes, while others had bowls of winter fruits that begged to be eaten. A warm fire burned merrily in the grate, and large, overstuffed chairs beckoned invitingly to be sat in, and when Hadriana waved Varania towards the chairs nearest the fire she sank gratefully into its softness.

Varania watched the flames, lost in her own thoughts, until Hadriana coughed gently and offered her a glass of wine. The two women sat in silence, each thinking about what they had lost.

"Did you see him fall?" Varania asked eventually, her voice flat.

"I did not. I couldn't watch…"

"Oh."

The fire crackled and popped, the orange flames dancing for an audience that was paying them no attention.

"He knew he was going to lose, did you know?" Hadriana asked after a moment, holding her wine glass in her uninjured hand. A small sound, somewhere between a sob and a hiccup, escaped from Varania, but Hadriana, merciless as ever, continued. "He did it for you. He died for you. After the attack, I went to visit him in the infirmary. All he wanted was a life for you, and he believed that the arena was the best and fastest way to achieve it. And now he's dead."

"Why are you telling me this?" Varania asked.

"Because I made him a promise that if he died, I would ensure that you and your mother where taken care of."

Varania looked at the other woman in such horror that Hadriana couldn't help but laugh. "Calm yourself. I do not want you – Maker, if I never see you again it would be too soon. You, your mother, Callum, your… I wish I had never set eyes on the whole damnable lot of you. But we must play that hand we are dealt, mustn't we? Slightly wretched when we have in fact been the one to deal ourselves out of the game, but c'est la vie, as the Orleasians say.

"I have signed the papers to free you and your mother from the House. Did you know Callum never had you registered? Most vexing. It took much longer as I had to both register and then release you both, and frankly I would have rather spent this evening in a tavern. I have arranged for you to be indentured to Magister Ahriman in Qarinus. He is a young man, with radical views on the treatment of elves, and will look after you in a manner that I believe Callum would have wished for."

"But I don't understand… I don't want to… I want to go back to my family…"

Hadriana sighed heavily, tired and annoyed. But a Magister never lies, and she had told Callum she would see Varania and her mother safe. "Your family is gone. How do you think you would find them? To the void, girl, how do you imagine you would travel through the Imperium, with your mother gibbering at your side and no master to vouch for you? Do you expect me to accompany you on you darling quest to regain your past? No. Callum died for you today, to protect you from such an undertaking. The very least you can do now is see that his sacrifice was not in vein."

Varania shuddered as Hadriana spoke, each word out of the bitch's mouth like a punch. By the time Hadriana had finished, Varania was broken.

"You and your mother will be taken by coach in the morning. I suggest you finish your wine and begin to pack. Take anything you want – there is nothing here I wish to keep. There is just one more thing," Hadriana said as Varania stood to leave. "I require that you sign this note, stating that you and your mother have both received your freedom, and have been delivered with due care and attention to your new home."

Hadriana produced a rolled sheet of vellum, which she passed to Varania. Varania walked to the desk, surprised how new it was in a room of well-loved antiques, and then wondered why she had noticed such a pointless detail when her whole life was crashing down around her. She unrolled the scroll, and was surprised to see it was written in basic Elvhen. For a moment she sensed something else, something more than Hadriana was telling her… but then realised she simply didn't care, and signed her name. Hadriana took the scroll from her, and tucked away in her robe. She then produced yet another scroll, this one sealed with a shiny blob of wax.

"This is also for you. There is information in here that I wish you to have. Do not try to open it now; you can't. The seal will break once you arrive in Qarinus. Well, good-bye _Varania_."

Varania watched as Hadriana walked out of the office and, Maker willing, out of her life. She stood for a moment in front of the fire, Hadriana's scroll held loosely in her hands. For the briefest of moments Varania contemplated throwing it into the fire, if only to watch it burn. But then she decided against it. She had lost enough, and perhaps… perhaps there was something from Callum written there, a final message that she could keep and hold and have.

The next day Varania and Aryion were taken to their new lives as free women.

**Hadriana**

Hadriana left immediately to deliver Varania's affidavit to Denarius. She took the chase, into which she had piled her dearest possessions: her bronze mirror, her jewellery, her staff and runes; she left her books and most of her clothes. Egidius had not been poor, and had in his desire thoroughly spoilt her, but his wealth was nothing compared to the riches that would be available to her as Denarius' daughter and apprentice.

_Daughter. _Maker how that word stuck in her throat.

She worried over her misfortunes like a broken tooth. Here she was, on her way to move in with the only person, other than herself, that was worthy of her love and he was disgustingly infatuated with a wild, savage knife-ear. When Hadriana thought about Leto her hatred would rise like vomit from deep within her, tangible and corrosive and wholly pernicious. It was _his_ fault that Denarius couldn't see her for what she was; it was _his _fault that she had gambled and lost everything; it was _his_ fault that she was feeling, for the first time, inconsequential and second rate.

Over and over again her humiliations tumbled across her mind, her self-pity prowling and circling and never, ever being sated. _The way he had looked at it as it lay unconscious on the bed, the hunger in his eyes and the flush to his face…_ Hadriana's jaw was clenched so tightly her teeth began to hurt, and still she couldn't stop torturing herself.

The small coach rattled and bounced its way through the milky light of dawn towards the city and her new home. Hadriana closed the curtains against the morning, refusing to acknowledge a world that had disappointed her so much. She tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she was shuddered and shocked by the bumpy cobbles, and eventually she settled for staring dully at the pattern on the opposite cushion seat. It had been one of Egidius' choosing, and Hadriana had never cared for it. He had always chosen the old styles, those that had been popular in his youth.

When he had bought Hadriana her own littler she had gone hell for leather in the opposite direction, scatting soft Orlesian cushions over the seats and draping the lacquered wooden frame in the thin, translucent material from Nevarra that was so popular now. Not for her the bulky Imperium upholstery nor the heavy Ferelden style curtains that blocked out the light and constantly smelled of damp and dust.

_Dust._ _Is that what my life is to be now, a dusty shadow of something that had promised so much?_

No, she was not a creature of the past, of regret or sentiment. She was, and always would be, the woman who had connived and wheedled and fought her way into the greatest House in the whole of The Imperium.

What did it matter if she hadn't achieved her exact desire? She still had so much, and there was yet more accolades and treasures to be had. And then she remembered the letter she had sent Varania away with, and she pictured the shock and pain on her disgusting, inhuman face as she read that it had been her very own flesh and blood that had murdered her lover, and consigned her to a life of drudgery and poverty, of sexual harassment and beatings. It pleased Hadriana to think that, at least somewhere in the world, there might be someone who hated Leto as much as she did.

Her only regret was that, if Denarius was right about the side effects of the lyrium branding, she would not be able to torture the elf with his sister's misery. _But then_, she reasoned, _there are sure to be other ways to punish him for taking what should have been mine_.

Hadriana listened only to the echoes of her mind; she was walled in by her own furious inhumanity and ego, protected and imprisoned by her own indomitable sense of self-worth. By the time she arrived at Denarius' townhouse she was, and always would be, herself again.

Hadriana smiled.

**Denarius**

Denarius put on the simple linen robes on for the last time, and stepped quickly down the staircase to his basement laboratory, the same room that had for decades seen so many of his failures. He held Varania's scroll tightly in his hands, and even then he still kept checking to make sure he hadn't somehow managed to tear it or lose it.

Thankfully he managed to reach the cool landing without somehow the scroll spontaneously combusting or being torn to confetti by a sudden manifestation of demonic silverfish, eventualities that in his heightened state seemed not impossible. He paused for a moment by the door to catch his breath and smooth down the lines of his robe, and then, his heart hammering in his chest, he pushed the door open and, for the final time, became Tiberius.

Leto was standing by his desk, his body naked and completely shaven, leafing casually through one of his many notebooks. When he heard the door he turned quickly, his whole posture suddenly defensive and wary. But then his face broke momentarily into a smile as he recognised his friend. Denarius resisted the urge to swallow, and instead allowed himself a small smile in return.

"I have been looking through these books. I can't understand the words, but the pictures are more than adequate – quite alarmingly so. It seems that this procedure is… complex?" Leto asked, drifting back to the operating table. He jumped up onto it, and sat, swinging his long legs backwards and forwards absently. Denarius thought about what Varania had told him about the nature of the vallaslin and those who must submit to it, and couldn't help but compare the image of Leto kicking his legs like a child to the bound and screaming subjects he had worked on in the past. And then he knew, at that exact moment he knew.

_It's going to work._

"Yes… It's difficult to work the lyrium. And the magic requires a great deal of focus, of course," he replied, moving to sit next the elf and then deciding against it.

"But I will be in good hands."

"Yes," Denarius reassured him quickly. "I have the letter from your sister, as you requested. You're quite sure you don't want to see her?" Denarius asked, knowing already that Leto would refuse. He had, after all, spent the better part of half a year imbedding in the elf such a vast sense of guilt and shame that he would be prevented from ever wanting to see anyone from his old life ever again. But he had to be seen to ask, and so he did. Leto shook his head, as Denarius had known he would.

Denarius paused for a moment, running a few sentences through his mind as he sought for the right phrase to help urge the elf onwards. But after a second he reached a decision, and simply handed the scroll to the boy. He was, he knew, so very good at solving puzzles, and this last little hurdle was just another problem to be worked through. He was, in fact, enjoying himself immensely.

He watched Leto as he painstakingly read the note, his full lips moving along as he sounded out each syllable and phoneme. He didn't offer to help. Instead he thought about everything that had happened to lead him here, to be in this room now with not only his heart's desire but also his life's work and felt, in his cold and analytical way, how miraculous life was. Everything fitted together so neatly, if only you had the will to see it.

After an agonisingly long time for such a short and perfunctory note, Leto finished reading and handed the scroll silent back. His leg had stopped their swinging, and he went to run his hand over his hair and then pulled away in shock when he felt the slightly clammy texture of skin against his palm.

Something flitted across Leto's face, some emotion that he couldn't read or understand, and he realised that he needed to act now, before whatever sensation the elf was experiencing took root and jeopardised his destiny.

And, as anyone who knew anything knew, nothing ever stopped Denarius.

**Leto**

Tiberius walked through the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts, all of which were unwanted and unwelcome.

After about ten minutes he returned again with another, extremely beautiful, human woman, and a large bag that clinked when he set it down. Leto watched as the woman began to empty the bag of its contents, placing a series of metal and stone devices onto the table next to him, each one more intricate and disturbing than the last. When she had finished she moved quickly away from him, and Leto suddenly had the sense that, if she could have done, she would have driven each sharp, evil little tool into his body.

He looked across at Tiberius, who sent him a reassuring smile as he began to light a fire in the large furnace that occupied one whole corner of the room.

"Will this hurt?" Leto asked, already knowing the answer, but suddenly needing the distraction of conversation.

Tiberius glanced at the woman, who tramped over and began fanning the flames. He left her there, sulkily working the bellows, and came and stood next to him.

"Yes, it will," he said gently, and his voice softened and Leto felt himself relax. "But you won't remember," Tiberius continued, gently easing Leto back onto the table. Leto tensed for just a second, and then remembered that he was safe, and that Tiberius would never do anything to hurt him. It never really crossed Leto's mind to question his beliefs – it would have been easier for a fish to question the sea. It was just something that he _knew_, in the same way he knew that his sister would never forgive him for forcing her into slavery, or that his mother would never forgive him for letting Gideon die, or Cassandra for leaving her that morning on the dock.

_It will be good to forget._

He lay back on the bed, only dimly away as Tiberius began to strap him down. Instead he concentrated on the other man's voice; it was almost impossible for him not to, in fact. There was something there that just made him feel _better_, something about Tiberius that made him want to be with the other man, and to listen to him, and to believe him.

_Everything is going to be alright._

"Everything is going to be alright," Tiberius whispered to him. Leto, now strapped down by his neck, wrists, ankles and midriff, nodded. _The worst is over._ "The worst is over," he heard the other man say, echoing his own thoughts. Tiberius knew him so well, he understood him better than anyone else had ever done. Tiberius was going to save him, to take away all his pain and misery and confusion and give him a new life and a new purpose.

Leto closed his eyes, and listening to the sound of his heart beating. Dimly he was aware of a hushed conversation between Tiberius and the beautiful, angry woman, but he could neither hear nor did he care what they were saying.

"Are you ready?" Tiberius asked him.

"Yes," Leto replied without hesitation. "Take it all away."

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

Five hours later, Leto died…

…_Fenris woke screaming, his every nerve howling along to his own ragged voice in burning pain. It was all he knew, all the he had ever been. It was him. White hot lashes of molten agony whipped his body into a pulp until there was no way to know where he ended and the pain began. Was there even such a thing as 'him', or was he only a host to the living, breathing beast the ripped and tore him to pieces? There was nothing… nothing…else… _

…_and the air was cold and hard against his skin, and it burned him and stung him and he thought for one moment that he would bite through his tongue if his teeth didn't stop chattering, his fingers and toes and, oh Maker, every part of his body was so, so, so cold and it scorched him and he would die… he wouldn't die…._

Fenris sat in his mansion, watching the flames as they flickered and died, until only the smallest sliver of a spark danced across the charred wood. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but the sky outside his window had taken on the bruised orange of the dawn and he knew that in a few hours he would need to go and speak to Hawke, to once again ask for his help.

And would the other man agree? They had barely spoken to each other in months, and now he was going to ask him to come with him when he met his sister. He wasn't sure what terrified him more, finally meeting someone who could help him put to rest the whispery threads of his memories or the fact that Hawke, now so entangled in the Mage Underground, might refuse him.

He pushed his head back against the soft cushion, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had been awake all night, and still he hadn't managed to reach any kind of conclusion. It was unbearable. _Is this how everyone lives? Always questioning themselves and the people around them?_ He asked himself bitterly, angry at a world that demanded so much from him that he didn't know how to give. _Is this what it means to be free?_

To be free. Hawke had told him once that he although he may no longer be in chains, he was certainly not free.

Fenris stood and stretched, reaching his arms high above his head and splaying his fingers. It felt good to use his body. And maybe that was it? Maybe that was the freedom he needed. He padded over to the fireplace and stabbed absently at the smouldering wood. _Could it be_, he thought as he watched the embers fly up and around him in crazy patterns, _that freedom is not so different from the fire? Dangerous and terrible if left to its own devices, but squashed and neutered if smothered? The fire needs to be tended, it needs to be shaped or else it ceases to be a fire… _

He stared at the wood as it slowly cooled from burning white to amber and red.

_If no one cares for the fire it becomes a blaze, a tragedy, harming anyone that stands in its way. Just like me. I cannot survive on my own… I need friendship, family… love… to stop me from burning out of control._ _It doesn't make me weak, and it doesn't mean I will burn those who tend me. Yet, if the fire is guarded too jealously, if it is over fanned or too much wood is placed on it, it ceases to burn. It is no longer a fire. It's just so much dead wood, slowly cooling down until all that is left is ashes. This is what Denarius did to me… he controlled my life to the point where I was no longer alive. I had no function without him, he was the wood that I clung to, the air that I fed off. I thought for years he loved me, and I loved him. But that can't have been true. If he had loved me he wouldn't have punished me to protect his reputation, he wouldn't have forced me to do the things he did, he wouldn't have let Hadriana torture and abuse me… if he had loved me he would have let live freely, he would have listened to me and argued with me and not simply told me how much I needed him, but also how much he needed me…_

And then Fenris though about Hawke, and for the first time in a long time he smiled, a small wicked smile that spoke of a great reservoir of happiness just below the surface, a smile that reached his eyes.

**The End**

_Thank-you everyone who has been reading this story, and to everyone who has left a comment. I've never written before and it has been certainly one the most immense and fantastic experience and challenge. I highly recommended it!_

_If you can spare a few minutes, I would love to know what you think now it is finished. I am going to write an *original* story for NaNoWriMo and it would be genuinely fantastic to get your feedback/constructive criticism._

_And finally – phew! – if you have enjoyed the story please share it with others _


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